Chapter Nine: Judgment Day

Something was terribly wrong. Galadriel’s mouth opened, but she could not seem to find her voice. The turmoil she was witnessing was wreaking havoc with her own mind, but all she could be sure of was that something very strange was taking place in Disaran’s mind. Visibly, the man squirmed and jerked. To the watching mortals and even the elves, it must appear as if the man was finally fearful of death, and fighting in vain to get away, but Galadriel could see that the man was no longer even aware of his impending doom. Thoughts merged, overlapped, swept into and through each other, almost like…almost like a river emptying into the sea, and the endless battle between the river’s current and the ocean’s tide. A battle of wills--wills…more than one will in one body…TWO!

Aragorn had raised Anduril up as the Riancam readied himself.

A sound rather like a squeak came from her, as Disaran’s head turned to face the stands. The struggle was evident in his face, and a soft murmur of confusion rippled through the group, but Aragorn did not notice. His eyes were on the executioner who awaited his signal. Disaran’s eyes focused directly upon the onlookers just as Aragorn dropped Anduril’s blade. As Riancam began his swing, a collective gasp went up at the sight of Disaran’s eyes.

Not brown.

Grey.

“HOLD!!!”

It was impossible. A skilled swordsman like Riancam could complete the swing that would sever Disaran’s head from his body in less than one second. He would never be able to check the stroke in time!

But the cry that came from King Elessar, tinged with such authority and yet such desperation, was a command that no mortal beneath him would be able to ignore.

The edge of the blade bore down upon Disaran’s neck, but in a nearly superhuman feat of agility, Riancam wrenched his own body back, altering his aim so that the tip of the sword came down low, striking not the man’s body, but instead struck off the ring atop the pole that kept Disaran chained in a standing position.

From somewhere within Disaran, a pair of strange-yet-familiar grey eyes focused directly upon Galadriel, and her voice returned at last. “Mithrandir!” she cried over the pain-wracked howl of the executioner, who had actually injured himself in obeying his king’s last-split-second order.

The Maia was on his feet in a flash, aiming his staff even as Disaran staggered. A beam of blinding light, yet also tinged with darkness, shot from it as the wizard roared out an unmistakable command in a tongue that even Galadriel did not know. The energy engulfed the figure chained to the pole, and he fell, still fettered but no longer fastened in a standing position. A collective shout of inarticulate astonishment went up as the brilliance faded, the onlookers uncovered their eyes, and a body hit the ground like a dead weight and lay motionless.

Something had changed.

Still tall, but no longer so broad. Lean, almost lithe. His face was practically in the straw, but his hair…his hair…no longer short and black. Long and golden.

Now the people, all of them including Galadriel herself, cried out in one voice, this time in one word, voicing one shock, one disbelief, one hope.

“LEGOLAS!!!”

There was a burst of movement below her. In a feat that seemed impossible for such a short race, Gimli the dwarf vaulted clean over the railing of the stands, hit the ground upon his feet, and tore across the field at a speed that amazed every man and elf present. Aragorn jumped over Gimli’s empty chair and was out of the stands less than a second later, but for all the King’s unquestionable emotion lent him speed, the dwarf lived up to his race’s reputation for sprinting, and it was Gimli son of Glóin who reached the prone figure in the straw first.

Amid the babble of confusion, shock, and joy as people abandoned their seats and joined the stampede onto the field, Galadriel stood where she was with tears in her eyes. And smiled.

***

Just a few moments earlier…

When the executioner’s blade had come down, Legolas had stared at the faces of those he loved with a sense of triumph as he managed, from some last reserve of willpower, to keep Disaran’s spirit trapped along with him in the man’s body, so that his friends and family would not realize they had also slain Legolas again. His thoughts had been a blur, mostly concentrating on keeping Disaran there, and he had barely registered a shout from somewhere when the sword suddenly struck the loop keeping Disaran chained to the pole.

Neither man nor elf had been thinking about balance, and so once they were no longer chained upright against the pole, Disaran’s body had begun to fall. And then…

Light and indescribable pain had suddenly engulfed Disaran’s body, and both his spirit and Legolas’s had screamed in agony. Legolas felt as if something was rending him, tearing him up and putting him back together, and he had been aware of nothing but pain until the light vanished, and he fell, striking the hay with a great thud.

And then…

*Breathe.* He sucked in a deep, desperate breath. And another. He felt so weak and even less coherent than before; he did not even have the strength to push himself up so his face was not right in the straw. But he breathed. Himself. Again. And again. And again. His heart was pounding so hard--heart. His heart. Beating.

*What…what happened?!*

There was shouting, noise, ai! Terrible noise, all around him, the straw poked at him, and a Valar, how he hurt! He could not remember a time when he had been in so much pain. Where was he? What had happened?

“Legolas!” Someone was coming--nay, many people. The sound of pounding feet pulled itself from the cacophony, but Legolas could not even turn his head to see who it was. But…someone was calling his name! “Legolas!” Could they…was it possible…that now they could SEE him?

*Am I…alive?*

Hands grabbed his shoulders, and pain nearly ripped his consciousness away again. Strong, broad hands attempted to pull him up from the straw. “Legolas! Blessed Aule, Legolas? Legolas, by the Valar, answer me!”

*Gimli?!* “Gimli,” Legolas tried to reply, but no sound would come out. Then someone else was there, another familiar and much-loved voice, another pair of hands trying to lift him into a sitting position. Legolas’s hair fell into his face, obscuring his already-blurry vision, but he knew. *Sweet Elbereth. I am alive. Alive…*

***

Aragorn reached the straw mat and fell to Gimli’s side as the dwarf seized the fair-haired form by the shoulders and attempted to pull him upright. The figure in the straw was utterly limp, and Aragorn seized him from the other side, joining the dwarf’s efforts and trying to fight a dangerous surge of hysteria. “Legolas? Legolas? By the Valar, is it you?”

Abruptly, a hand rose and seized the dwarf’s arm, clutching at him, and Aragorn noticed with mounting panic how weak the grip was. There came a faint moan that might have been a word. Aragorn and Gimli managed to prop the almost-completely limp body against Gimli, and Aragorn frantically pushed the pale hair away from his face.

His eyes were glazed, his breath was ragged, and his entire body trembled. But there was no doubt in man or dwarf’s mind of his identity. The soul behind those half-focused grey eyes was the one they both knew so well. It was Legolas. Alive. *Alive!* “Legolas,” whispered Aragorn, feeling himself starting to tremble as well. “Legolas, it is you. How can this be?”

The pale lips moved, and a voice, as faint as a breeze, whispered, “Alive…”

Gimli squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the elf to him, making Legolas moan weakly in protest. “Legolas!”

“G…Gimli?” Legolas let his head sink further into the dwarf’s beard, clinging weakly to him. “Here…alive…”

They were surrounded by people now, all repeating the elf’s name in various degrees of shock, disbelief, and joy, but Aragorn paid the noise no heed. He struggled to keep his scattered thoughts together. “Faramir,” he said without looking up, and sensed rather than saw the Steward lean toward him. “See to Riancam.” The soldier was howling in agony and looked to have seriously injured himself. “Get that crowd under control.”

“Yes, my lord.” There was a tremor in Faramir’s voice as well.

“Wait! I need--I need the keys to the shackles!” Aragorn exclaimed, trying to keep himself coherent. Faramir also seemed to be fighting hysteria, and fumbled for the keys on his ring, and handed them to Aragorn before hurrying to speak to the guards.

Gimli barely seemed to see Aragorn as the man reached over to unshackle the elf’s ankles, but held Legolas tightly in his arms, rocking slightly, his eyes brimming. “Legolas. You blessed elf, how did this happen? How did it happen, Aragorn?”

“I don’t know,” the King of Gondor whispered, pressing his hand against the elf’s clammy forehead. “Oh Legolas.” His mind had seized on that raspy, whispered word that Legolas kept repeating, and it spun around and around in Aragorn’s head in a great maelstrom of joy and hope. *Alive! Legolas alive! Alive alive alive alivealivealivealive…*

“Aragorn?” came a hoarse whisper, and Aragorn leaned closer.

“I’m here, Legolas. I’m here. I…whatever happened, my friend, it’s all over. All over now.”

“Over,” came the murmured reply, and Aragorn knew the elf was even less coherent than he was.

“What did happen?” someone demanded, one of the hobbits, Aragorn thought.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn murmured, stroking strands of golden hair from the pallid face. “Some foul magic, to be sure. We’d better get him to the Houses of Healing; he seems to be in shock.” He beckoned Faramir back over to assist. Hastily, he undid the fastening of his mantle and wrapped the dark cloak around Legolas’s shivering body.

“Yes--” Gimli began, shifting Legolas, but then the elf’s head fell back, and his hair fell from his neck, also exposing the left side of his face. Gasps rang out, and Gimli froze. “By the Valar!”

Aragorn was not the only one who recoiled. Legolas’s hair had fallen back to reveal terrible bruising and swollen flesh on the left side of his face, as though the elf had been brutally beaten. Gimli’s breath began to catch, hitching in half-sobs, as the eyes of all fell upon the black bruises upon the elf’s neck: the clear marks of strong, vengeful fingers. “Aragorn,” Gimli whispered, his voice beginning to shake. “Aragorn…”

He all but dropped Legolas then, and Aragorn carefully took the trembling elf, supporting his body in his arms while the dwarf pulled away from them both. “Gimli, what--” he looked up to see Faramir also backing away, white-faced and looking about to become ill. “What is it?”

“I did that,” the dwarf whispered in a voice filled with horror. “I…no, oh Aule…I did that. It…”

Faramir had fallen to his knees. “I…Aragorn…it must be…it was him all the time. Legolas, oh Valar, I hit him!” He grabbed the sides of his head. “They…I let them beat him!”

“By the Valar, I begin to understand!” said a new voice, and Gandalf knelt beside Aragorn, touching the shivering elf’s face. Elrond was beside him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the state of Legolas’s injuries. “Aragorn, we must get him to the Houses of Healing at once. He is in shock and badly hurt,” said the Maia.

“Gimli?” Legolas seemed to have just realized that he was no longer in the dwarf’s arms, and looked around with glassy eyes. “Gimli?” His gaze fell upon the dwarf, who had stumbled a few feet away, and there was no mistaking the pleading in his gaze.

“Gimli, come back, he wants you here,” said Gandalf urgently.

But now it was the dwarf who was going into shock. “I choked him…Disaran…but it wasn’t…” He did not hear King Thranduil shoving through the crowd behind him. Aragorn, Gandalf, and Elrond exchanged frantic glances.

“Gimli!” Aragorn snapped, dreading what Thranduil would do if he heard the dwarf’s babbled confession, and feeling Legolas straining against his grip. “Worry about that later, now Legolas needs you! He’s asking for you.”

“I--” Gimli broke off as Thranduil came by him and stared down at the dwarf. Aragorn’s heart froze. *Oh no. He’ll demand retribution…no! Not now!*

“Thranduil!” snapped Gandalf, springing up and seizing the elven king’s arm before he could speak. “This isn’t the time or the place for accusations. All that matters is your son lives!”

For what it was worth, it did make Legolas’s father hold off on seeking vengeance, for he knelt swiftly, still glaring furiously at the dwarf who was confessing to responsibility for his son’s injuries. With a dismissive curse, he turned to look at Legolas, who recognized him and tried to speak, but his voice failed again. As Aragorn carefully removed the fetters from his wrists, wincing at the bruises, Legolas reached weakly to his father. Then Thranduil himself froze. Elrond hissed. Several people recoiled.

Legolas’s right hand was burned, most severely. At the sight of the raw, blistered flesh, Thranduil jerked backward, and the combined amazement and rage on his face gave way to horror. Then…anguish. “No,” he whispered, suddenly seeming not to realize anyone else was there. “Legolas?”

The elf seemed to be regaining his senses a little, and his dark grey eyes were a little clearer as he looked at Thranduil. “Father,” he whispered, urgency in his raspy voice. “N-not…their fault. Disaran, not theirs…” he was struggling to stay conscious and coherent as he tried to speak. “My friends.”

The elven king did not answer. It appeared to Aragorn that he lacked the ability. Gandalf put his hands on the shaken elf’s shoulders. “There was no way you could have known. Not you and not the others. No one could have known, if Disaran did what I suspect he did. Come, Thranduil. We must see to Legolas. He lives and he will recover.”

“Gimli?” Legolas asked again.

Hesitantly, the dwarf came closer. “I’m here, Legolas.”

The grey eyes were losing focus again. “Where? Can’t see you,” he tried to move in Aragorn’s grasp and moaned in pain, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shh,” Aragorn soothed, rocking him like a child. “Easy, Legolas, easy. He’s here. Gimli, come.”

Gimli was shaking. Carefully, he lifted the elf’s right arm to rest against his chest so the burned hand would not touch the ground. He raised a trembling hand to the bruises on Legolas’s neck. “Oh Legolas…forgive me. I didn’t know!”

Legolas’s eyes were fixed intensely upon the dwarf. “I know,” he murmured faintly. The grey orbs lost focus for a moment, then by the dint of rapid blinking, the injured elf fought off unconsciousness. “Gimli, not your fault.”

“Legolas--”

“--No!” Aragorn had to choke back a sob. Dead, then alive, injured in some way he still could not comprehend, it was amazing how much stubbornness Legolas still managed to get into his voice. “Not your fault! Disaran…” his head lolled against Aragorn’s shoulder.

The King of Gondor shifted his grip and felt the elf’s ribs grate beneath one hand as Legolas cried out. *A Valar!* At least three ribs were broken. “Faramir, we must have a stretcher of some sort. I dare not move him in this condition. Faramir!”

The Steward was still staring in horrified anguish at the injured Legolas and did not seem to hear Aragorn. Fortunately, there was a shout from nearby to make way, and Elladan and Elrohir suddenly appeared, carrying a stretcher and led by Eomer. “Here, my lord. We should get him out of this mob.” Aragorn shot the King of the Mark a grateful glance. Eomer had not yet seen Legolas’s injuries and flinched, his hand lingering over the elf’s bruised face in dismay. “Valar, what happened?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn replied, easing Legolas carefully down to lie flat upon the straw. “Something to do with Disaran--”

“Disaran? Curses, Aragorn, what happened to him?!” Eomer cried. “Did he escape?”

Aragorn had been so focused upon Legolas, he had completely forgotten about the Black Hunter. Judging by the looks of shock and alarm on the faces of the others, elves and all, he was not the only one. “Gandalf?” he asked uncertainly.

Kneeling next to Gimli, who was still holding the elf’s hand, the wizard frowned. “I am not sure. They were both in his body when I performed the spell to free Legolas, but…it was the elf’s body that appeared. I am not certain exactly how Disaran did it, but I believe he had Legolas’s spirit somehow bound to him. I would imagine he might be found now in the prison near the remains of the Stone. Or perhaps the House of Kings.”

“Seal off the exits to the city!” Aragorn ordered.

“Already done, my lord,” said Eomer.

“Bless you, Eomer. Dispatch guards, search Minas Tirith. Have them start near the House of Kings and the prison.”

“Yes, my lord!” one of the captains hurried away.

Aragorn placed a finger under Legolas’s chin, feeling the elf’s heart hammering far too fast. His eyes were half-focused, and it made the King of Gondor sick to see the haunted look in them. “We must get him out of this chaos. After all he’s been through--Valar, I don’t even know what he’s been through, but he needs peace. Stand back a moment, Gimli.” He and his foster-father carefully readied themselves to lift Legolas onto the stretcher that lay waiting beside them, hoping not to cause him any more pain. “Hold on, Legolas, this will hurt. Ready? Now!”

Legolas groaned as they lifted him up and laid him back down upon the heavy bier. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. “Disaran…”

“Shh, worry not, Legolas. The guards are searching the entire city; we’ll find him. He shall never harm you again,” Aragorn promised his friend.

“Still dangerous,” murmured the elf. “The stone…”

“The stone is gone,” said Gimli from behind Aragorn. “It is destroyed.”

“Gimli? Where?” Legolas asked.

“I am here, my friend, but Aragorn must take you to the Houses of Healing. You’re hurt,” said the dwarf, bowing his head.

“Gimli!”

“Peace, Legolas, he’s here. Elladan, Elrohir, you will aid me?” Aragorn asked his foster-brothers.

“Of course.” The twins knelt at either end. “Ready? Lift.”

“Make way!” cried more than a dozen voices as the elves lifted Legolas up and bore him swiftly away, Elrond following Aragorn closely as they hurried from the field. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Lady Galadriel leaving the field in another direction, but there was no time to determine where she was going.

Aragorn looked down at the elf in the stretcher and grimaced; Legolas was semi-conscious and looking worse than ever. “Hold on, my friend. This madness will be over soon,” he whispered. Legolas moaned and turned his head toward Aragorn’s voice, but the man suspected the elf barely knew who he was. He ran ahead of the stretcher. “To the Houses of Healing! Hurry!”

And so the elves carried Legolas swiftly from the field where his murderer was to have been executed, led by the King of Gondor, and followed by an entourage of all those who had sought to be his avengers.

***

At the House of Kings…

Disaran knew it would not be a wise idea to stick around. Light and pain had finally receded, and he had opened his eyes to find himself lying upon a gray cloak in this tomb. He had nearly laughed with delight. *It worked. The elf failed! I am free!* He had rather hoped to find his spirit in the elf’s body, thus achieving the ultimate conquest, but it was no skin of his nose to be alive and free in his own body. Either way, he had won.

It would not be wise to linger there; Elessar was no fool. Once his people realized what had happened, it would not be long before guards poured into the Silent Street searching for Disaran. The Black Hunter peered out of the building and ducked hastily across the Street. *The real trick will be getting myself out of the city. Perhaps I can reach the stables and steal a horse.*

As predicted, guards were soon swarming all over Minas Tirith, and Disaran wondered how soon he would be able to kill a guard and steal a uniform. In any case, he was running out of time. Keeping his head down, he joined the streams of people running about through the streets. It never ceased to amaze him how dense soldiers could be. Gondorrim were scampering to and fro on all sorts of self-important errands in the wake of the chaos at the execution without even bothering to look at each other’s faces.

Before long, he had the city walls in sight. *I shall be away before they even make sense of what has happened!*

He dodged a party of agitated women and ducked into the stables, hiding behind a squad of White Company riders to avoid the stable guard. Creeping into an empty stall, he waited until the stables fell quiet again. He peered cautiously through the stall door and nearly shouted in delight: some careless White Company guard had left his saddlebags hanging off the nail of the stall that held his horse--with the corner of a spare uniform peeking out. Gleefully, he danced out of the stall, thinking, *And I do not even have to risk a commotion by killing anyone.*

“How terribly convenient for you.”

Disaran jumped nearly into the back stable wall. He stared. Standing between him and the stable doors was an elf, the most beautiful elf he had ever seen in his life. Dressed in flowing white, her veil had fallen back from her golden hair, which spilled past her waist. Her face might have been carved of ivory marble, and her eyes…hard as chips of blue ice. It had been nearly three thousand years…but he recognized her.

With a mocking bow, Disaran smiled. “Galadriel. So we meet again.”

She did not move. “So you remember.”

“Of course! How could I forget the face of an elf as fair as you? Even though you were in the throws of maternal hysterics the last time I saw you.”

There was a quick movement under the folds of her white cloak, and it did give Disaran just the slightest start to see a white elven knife appear in her slim hand. Recovering himself, he smiled. “You find a mother come to avenge the child you slew amusing?” she asked coldly.

He chuckled. “Do forgive me, Galadriel, but I have fought elven warriors far more heavily armed than you. And seeing as how I no longer have the Stone of Ar-Pharazon, I have no need to slay you--although I might like to add a lock of your hair to my collection!” he added, eyeing her appreciatively.

There came a loud thud behind Disaran, and he whirled, finding himself face-to-face with the dwarf-friend of Legolas, perched upon the top of a stall where he had climbed in the window. “That’s LADY Galadriel to you, villain!” He growled before launching himself down at Disaran.

Disaran dodged a swing from the dwarf’s axe and swerved back toward the ends of the stables, not wanting an elf at his back and a dwarf at his front. Grabbing a sword from next to the saddle bag, he brought it to bear. “I must say, Master Dwarf, you’re the last person I expected to see. Why aren’t you busy playing pet to dear Legolas?”

“Say his name again, fiend, and I’ll chop you down to my size!”

Disaran laughed aloud, “Oh, be off! How could an elf possibly merit such loyalty?” He parried another blow. “You’re a dwarf! You spend your lives being sneered at and downtrodden by ones such as him--and her! Elves! So beautiful and powerful and perfect--what are they truly good for?” He backed off and grinned, jerking his head at the elf woman watching the fight dispassionately. “Come now, Master Dwarf! She’ll never consider you or me worthy to kiss her hand!”

The dwarf’s eyes were blazing with fury, and he retaliated with a blow from his axe that very nearly took Disaran’s head off. “You’ll pay for the injuries you’ve done to her, to my friend, and for the way you’ve defiled all the Eldar!”

“The only reason you make up to elves is it makes you feel important when they deign to speak to you!” Disaran retorted, knocking the axe away again with the sword. “Stop deluding yourself! There are other ways to achieve that goal without groveling before them! I’ve done it! And do not tell me you wouldn’t be tempted by the offer of a lock of her hair!”

With a loud clang, the sword was knocked from his hand as the dwarf backed him into the wall, raising his weapon. “I’m not that greedy,” he snarled, and brought the axe down.

The last thing Disaran ever saw was the light from the elf glinting on the curved blade as it swung directly into his neck. There were many final things he would have liked do, even more he would have liked to say, but…it happened so fast.

***

Galadriel felt rooted to the ground where she was as the son of Glóin ended the Black Hunter’s career once and for all. The man’s head rolled under the door of a stall, greeted by a startled whinny, as a lifeless body slumped to the ground against the back wall of the stable. Still she stared. The dwarf lowered his axe again and turned to face her, his blade shining red in the dim light.

He bowed. “Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service, my lady. And your family’s.”

She stared at him. Whatever the other emotions he felt at seeing her confronting her son’s murderer, surprise was not among them. “You knew.”

“I fear so, Lady. Then again, I must confess that our common purpose more likely led to this common path.”

“Disaran.” She had not come to Minas Tirith for a trial. She had not come to witness justice. She knew King Elessar would see to that.

She had come to see with her own eyes the murderer of her child and her people dead. No more and no less.

Gimli glanced down at his axe. “It ends here. I might not have been able to save Legolas from him, but at least that’s the end of him.” *And too late. As usual.*

Galadriel heard him, of course. For several moments, she watched Gimli, standing before her, yet only half-seeing her. Always before, the dwarf had stared at her, every fiber of his soul rapt toward her face. Now he scarcely saw her.

But she got his full attention when she stepped toward him and deliberately sank to her knees, so that her face was level with his. He gaped. “My…my lady? Y-you should not--”

“It is as you said, Gimli son of Glóin. You have done a service, to me and to my family. You have destroyed a scourge that fed upon my people. We are indebted to you.”

“Too late to be of any use to those he slew! I beg you, Lady, rise! I am not worthy--”

“--peace, Lock-bearer. I know the accusations you bring against yourself, but you are wrong.” She looked hard at him. “The loss of the Stone of Ar-Pharazon did not mean that the Black Hunter would cease to visit his hate and malice upon my kindred. You fail to see the worth of what you have done because I cannot tally lives that now shall not be taken by Disaran.”

Gimli turned away, but not before she saw the tears glimmering in his eyes. “I nearly killed Legolas. His neck--he bears the marks of my hands upon his throat. I wanted to kill Disaran, and I tried to kill him, only Faramir stopped me doing it. But it was Legolas! It was Legolas all along, and I cannot imagine the torment he suffers now.”

“Then why are you here and not in the Houses of Healing?” she asked him.

“I’ve hurt him enough already.”

“He called your name, Gimli,” Galadriel said, standing up again.

Gimli’s eyes widened as he looked at her. “What…do you mean?”

*You know precisely what I mean. Then and now, son of Glóin, it is you whom he calls, the one dearest to his heart. Do not allow the guilt you have imposed upon your race to cause you to forsake him now.* She stepped to the side, giving way to the stable doors. “Go to him, elvellon.”

***

In the Houses of Healing, a short time later…

The world was not as blurry as it had been when his spirit had been fading, but Legolas’s mind was moving so slowly that it may as well have been. There were people, so many people, bustling around him, jostling him, touching him, and speaking to him, that he could not make sense of anything. He did not even know where he was. He lay upon a soft bed, his head pillowed, and different faces kept moving close to his to whisper soft words to him, but he could not seem to comprehend what they said. He knew these faces though, or at least he thought he did. If only everything would cease moving for a few moments, he might be able to get his bearings.

“Legolas?”

There they were again! He turned his head toward the face near him, blinking as it swam in and out of focus too fast for him to recognize it. “Wh-who…”

Someone’s hand brushed the hair from the bruised side of his face. The touch was gentle, familiar, and Legolas found himself relaxing. “Legolas, it is I, your father. Do you know me?”

“Father?” He blinked again, and sure enough, Thranduil’s face swam into view over him, only to blur again just as swiftly. “Where…where am I?”

“You are in the Houses of Healing, my son. Fear not. You are safe.”

“Can’t see.”

“Then rest. Recover your strength. I will be here.”

“A moment, my lord,” another voice floated into his ears, and Thranduil suddenly disappeared.

“Father?!”

“I am still here, Legolas.”

“Do not fear, Legolas,” someone else was bending over him. A man…Aragorn. “We must see to your injuries.” The rim of a cup brushed his lips, sending the sweet odor of medicine into his nose. “Drink, it will help you sleep--”

“No!” Legolas jerked his head away, wincing. “No, I cannot--”

“Legolas, it’s only Aragorn!” Gimli’s face appeared, hovering over him.

“Gimli,” he sighed in relief. The dwarf had been gone for a time, though Legolas had called to him.

The cup was offered again, and Legolas pulled away. “Valar, Legolas, Aragorn’s a healer! He would never harm you,” Gimli urged, trying to make the elf accept the draught.

“I know, I…” Legolas blinked, trying to speak coherently. “I don’t, don’t want…”

*Legolas.*

“Who--”

The fair form of the Lady Galadriel came into view above him, and though her light was as dazzling as ever, it did not hurt his eyes. *You fear sleep, son of the Eldar.*

“Yes,” he whispered, disarmed into honesty.

A white hand brushed his cheek, and some of the pain seemed to bleed away. His eyelids grew very heavy. She spoke aloud. “You are safe, Legolas. The Black Hunter is dead, before my eyes. You shall not find death in the night.” She leaned over him and gently kissed his brow. The last thing he saw before his eyes slid closed was her smile. *Sleep now, Legolas of Ithilien. The morning shall find new hope for us all.*

***

King Thranduil watched in numb silence as Aragorn, Lord Elrond, and the twins went to work treating his son’s injuries. He thought to go and offer his own healing skills, for they were not inconsiderable, but found himself lacking the ability to move. On the advice of Galadriel, even the accursed dwarf ceased lurking around Legolas’s bedside to return to the Halls of the Kings and sleep. So now Thranduil stood in the corner of the Houses of Healing, hiding in the shadows like a frightened troll, and looked on.

A part of him desired to rail and rage as Elladan gently propped Legolas up so Aragorn could bandage his broken ribs. It had been Aragorn’s Steward and his guards and that dwarf that had done this to Legolas in the first place; he wanted to tear his son from them and never let him into their clutches again. But how could he? One of Legolas’s most severe injuries had been by Thranduil’s hand. On removing the elf’s clothing, they had found still more wounds; the guards of Minas Tirith had visited their rage upon Disaran often, and brutally from the looks of it, never imagining that it was his last victim who suffered the torment. Elrohir hissed in dismay over the lash marks on the young elf’s back, but though Legolas whimpered occasionally as they worked, he did not wake. Galadriel had assured them that he would sleep through the night.

The Lady of Lórien also lingered in the chamber, just inside the door. Beneath her white hood, her blue eyes twinkled thoughtfully. *Your own skills as a healer might be of service to your son, Thranduil.*

Thranduil looked away, only to have his eyes fall upon the twins, who were attempting to clean sand and dust away from Legolas’s wounds. He closed his eyes. *I have no right to tend injuries that I myself inflicted, Lady.*

*You knew that it was your son who you harmed?*

*What? Of course I didn’t--* he looked incredulously at her and saw the quirk of her mouth. He sighed. *It was not our prerogative to maltreat a prisoner awaiting trial no matter what his crime. Valar, I knew that and still I wounded him--and enjoyed his torment! But it was Legolas! My son!*

Her eyes held his. *Many others were taken by the Black Hunter’s deception, son of Oropher. Even I. Yet Legolas has reproached none of you.*

*Yet,* he replied in a mental grumble.

He was answered by mental laughter. *Your youngest son inherited your stubbornness, Thranduil. I think you may find that it is this which is the cause of much of the strife between you.*

Thranduil bristled. *Whatever the strife between us in the past, when he has been troubled I have never been found away from my son’s side!*

*And yet here you are!*

Never in his life had the son of Oropher heard the Lady of the Galadhrim sound quite so…scornful. His mouth opened, and he blinked at her, which must have appeared ridiculous to any who beheld it, since neither had spoken a word aloud for nearly twenty minutes. Satisfied that she had obtained Thranduil’s full attention, the Lady Galadriel smiled and turned her face toward the bed surrounded by healers. *Go.*

Thranduil doubted that he could have disobeyed her--even if he had wished to.

To his surprise, neither Aragorn nor the other elves questioned him as he joined them at his son’s bedside. Like all elven healers (or in Aragorn’s case, a healer trained by elves) few words were spoken, for glances alone could convey what needed to be done. Elrohir had been painstakingly cleaning Legolas’s burned hand, and Thranduil calmly intercepted the bowl of soothing salve passed over by Elrond. When Elrohir stepped quickly aside, Thranduil took his place by the front of the bed. His heart clenched.

Legolas looked dreadful. With the grime now cleaned from his skin, he looked paler than ever, and the bruises stood out on his fair skin. He slept, but was clearly still in pain, for a faint grimace showed in his countenance. And yet…

*Alive. He lives. Nearly five days I mourned him, and yet he lives.* Thranduil’s throat tightened as he gently touched his son’s face. *Legolas, Legolas, I thought I would never see you asleep again!* There came a light touch upon Thranduil’s shoulder, startling him out of his reverie. He looked up to meet Elrond’s grey eyes. The Lord of Imladris smiled understandingly and nodded toward the salve Thranduil was neglecting. The elven king swiftly turned his attention back to it, and Elrond went away again.

Legolas whimpered softly and flinched in his sleep as his father carefully took up his burned hand, but once Thranduil began applying the salve, he stilled. Elladan appeared at the other side of the bed, dabbing at the dried blood on Legolas’s face, and grimaced at the pain the younger elf was obviously in. As gentle as they were, Thranduil’s fingers still brushed the raw burns from time to time, and Elladan still jarred the tender bruises, until Legolas was nearly rigid where he lay and moaning in his sleep. He calmed a little if they desisted, but the wounds had to be dressed. Finally, when Legolas stiffened and cried out yet again, Thranduil moved closer to his side and began to sing.

It worked. Legolas ceased tossing and sighed, falling into deeper dreams. The twins joined in the song then, and though they continued tending his wounds, Legolas relaxed completely. Having finished bathing the hurts, Elrohir called softly, “Estel.”

What peace Thranduil had gained vanished as Aragorn appeared next to him, examining Legolas as if the elves could not be trusted to treat him themselves. He remembered that Galadriel was present and gritted his teeth, keeping his mind as blank as possible. Galadriel knew he disliked her being able to read his thoughts--more still when she delivered a running commentary on them. Of course, being the greatest among elven women in Middle Earth and thus answering to few, his irritation mattered little to her.

But he nearly gave her cause to remark, for his thoughts became thoroughly resentful (and less than complimentary) as the mortal King of Gondor took up Legolas’s hand, eyeing the burns, and said matter-of-factly, “They are deep. I had thought to keep the hand uncovered, but his palm at least must be bandaged.”

*As if I could not have told him that,* Thranduil griped mentally, but he took the proffered bandages.

At long last, Aragorn and the twins had herded the onlookers and well-wishers (including Galadriel) from the Houses of Healing so the patient could rest, and Aragorn himself had also retired. Elladan remained in the next room, to be relieved by Elrohir later, but Thranduil found himself at last blessedly alone with his son. Legolas was sleeping peacefully, wrapped in blankets and his bandaged hand resting upon his chest. Thranduil softly sang to him for most of the night, and he never stirred. It was very late, or very early, before Thranduil finally allowed himself to seek the peace of dreams.

***

The next morning…

Aragorn awoke feeling thick-headed and bleary, and his first thought was an incredible reluctance to face another miserable day--then he remembered.

Legolas was alive.

The thought set him positively giddy, and he all but flew from bed, anxious to see his friend again and check on his welfare. He had returned to the Halls of the Kings to find Arwen and Lady Eowyn demanding to know what had happened at the execution. His report that Legolas had appeared in Disaran’s place alive--if not exactly well--had been met with near-hysterics from both of them. Each woman had proposed immediately to fly to the Houses of Healing to look upon the resurrected elf for herself, but between his own efforts and Lord Elrond’s, who had accompanied him, they had at last persuaded the women to put it off so Legolas could have some peace.

As it was, Aragorn knew he would be a fool indeed to expect all to be well just because Legolas was alive again. In fact, there was every reason to fear that his friend’s restoration would give way shortly to a whole new set of problems. Some of them were already turning up. Faramir had been completely undone by the discovery of the elf’s injuries, and it had been the Steward’s turn last night to receive an illicit sleeping draught from a certain meddling wizard. Knowing that life was about to become more difficult and confusing, Aragorn wished Faramir was not indisposed right at this moment, but recognized that he himself could hardly complain. *This whole affair has undone nearly everyone in Minas Tirith at one time or another.*

So he left it alone, welcoming Eomer’s assistance once again in keeping Gondor together. *Words cannot express the debt that I owe to the King of the Mark for all he has done this last week.* Nevertheless, Aragorn was determined to let Eomer know it before he returned to Rohan.

Arwen was already dressed, and it was not long before she was pacing about complaining that Aragorn was not dressing quickly enough. Before long (though Arwen disputed that expression) they were on their way to the Houses of Healing, joined by a small army of men, elves, and hobbits.

They arrived to Elrohir’s report that Legolas still slept, and debated whether or not to wake him. “He needs rest,” murmured Aragorn thoughtfully.

“Yea, but he may also need nourishment. We cannot begin to know what befell him at Disaran’s hand--even after we all believed him slain,” replied Arwen. Glancing at her husband and brother, she silently made her way to the elf’s bedside. King Thranduil sat there in a chair and moved to rise, but she placed a hand lightly upon his shoulder, bidding him remain seated. Instead, she simply stood close to the head of the bed where Legolas slept, staring down at him with full eyes, gently touching his face as if to assure herself that he was indeed real and not a ghost of their hopes. Her face grew troubled at the sight of his bruised face and neck, and his bandaged hand, but she bent down and softly kissed his cheek. Then she straightened and returned to Aragorn’s side.

“I think at least we should make him drink,” said Elrond. “He will need all his strength to heal.”

“Nay, make him eat as well,” said a new voice.

The elves and man turned to see Gandalf. “Mithrandir?” asked Arwen, a wealth of questions in speaking his name.

The wizard gave a little half-bow to the company. “If what I think has happened to him did happen, then he is not merely wounded and exhausted, but also suffering hunger and thirst. He will need plenty of rest, but we must rouse him enough to take food and drink.”

“That is word enough for me,” said Aragorn, and though King Thranduil narrowed his eyes slightly and glanced at Elrond, he did not dispute Gandalf’s suggestion.

Arwen accepted the elven king’s offer of his chair this time, and gently touched the elf’s face again. “Legolas? Awaken, my friend. Come, Legolas.” As the others watched, Legolas moved his head ever-so-slightly towards her before his eyes opened, very slowly as if they were nearly too heavy. His lips moved as he looked at her, but no sound came out. “Hush, do not trouble yourself. No, Legolas,” she smiled and shook him gently as his eyelids began drooping closed again, “you must stay awake for a few moments. Mithrandir has said you need nourishment, and you must at least be thirsty. There now, stay awake just for some food.” She took the cup of water offered by Elladan, and held it to Legolas’s lips, and the weak elf drank it without protest. By the time he had finished, he was falling asleep again, and she had to nudge him several more times to keep him conscious long enough to drink the broth Elrohir had prepared. No sooner had the empty mug been taken away than he drifted off again. She smoothed back his hair, her eyes troubled. “He is exhausted.”

“I fear he may have faced what no living being, man or elf, should ever have to face,” said Gandalf.

“What?” Aragorn whispered, fearful of disturbing Legolas. “You have not yet said what you think happened to him!”

“It is only because I am not completely certain. To be sure, even if I know what became of his spirit after it left his body--and it did, Aragorn, there was no mistake there. Legolas was dead in every physical sense of the word. What remains to be determined is exactly how his spirit remained in Middle Earth afterwards, and what befell it,” the wizard explained.

Arwen’s hand went to her breast, and Aragorn pretended not to notice when Thranduil shuddered. “You mean,” murmured Elladan, “his spirit was either remained in Middle Earth, or it was…sent back.”

“Precisely. But there are questions that need answers, many of which can only be answered by Legolas himself, and as you see, he is in no fit state to speak, let alone of what can only have been a hideous experience.” This time, Aragorn noticed that it was himself who shuddered. Gandalf looked at Legolas again and shook his head. “Whatever happened to his spirit, I think it obvious that he suffered terrible torment, the worst sort imaginable after death at the hands of his own murderer.”

“And his friends,” murmured Thranduil. Aragorn looked sharply at the elven king, but realized that Legolas’s father was rebuking himself, as well as the others whose blows were now in evidence upon Legolas’s body.

Speaking of friends of Legolas who might yet run into trouble with Thranduil, at that moment Gimli came in. The dwarf nodded to Aragorn, Gandalf, and the elves, then shared a quick scowl with Thranduil before moving defiantly past the elven king toward Legolas’s bedside. “I thought Legolas was not to be disturbed,” Thranduil said tightly.

“Legolas has asked for Gimli repeatedly since…returning,” said Elrohir in the dwarf’s defense.

***

As quiet as possible, Gimli sat in the chair by the bedside. He thought for a time that Thranduil was going to dispute his right to sit by the elf’s side, but Arwen smoothly took the elven king’s arm and spirited him from the room, speaking blithely of finding him some breakfast. Gimli was infinitely grateful to her. Aragorn had a quiet argument with Elrond and Gandalf over whether he should remain or return to the Halls of the Kings, but eventually the wizard won and sent the King back to deal with his anxious, confused people. Gimli did not envy him the task, especially without Faramir. Gandalf and Elrond continued muttering amongst themselves about what had actually happened to Legolas, and Elladan and Elrohir were busy keeping worried visitors from harrying the door, so Gimli sat in relative quiet by his friend’s side.

After some time, the elf began to moan and toss in his sleep, and Gimli grew worried. He tried gently ending the nightmare without waking Legolas, but the ill dreams continued to plague him, so at last, the dwarf shook his friend. “Legolas. It’s a dream. Wake, Legolas. You are safe.”

Grey eyes flew open in clear fright, and Legolas looked about him, his breath coming quickly. Gimli instinctively squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Legolas! Rest easy, my friend, all is well. You are safe now.”

Legolas’s eyes came to rest upon Gimli, and the dwarf was astonished at how swiftly the fear vanished from his face. *I was never able to protect him before. Why should the sight of me inspire such confidence, unless he is feverish and thinks me someone else.* With that worried thought, he felt the elf’s forehead, but while sweaty, it was not overly warm. He returned his hand to Legolas’s shoulder, thinking, *Strange, he is. Of all the people to find beside him when he wakes from a nightmare, that he would be relieved to see--*

“Gimli,” the relief in the elf’s voice cut off that line of thought. Gimli stared in amazement as Legolas continued looking at him as if he were the only person on earth the elf wanted to see. Satisfied that he was indeed safe from whatever nightmare had been plaguing him, Legolas relaxed against the pillow, covered Gimli’s hand with his own even as his eyes drooped closed again…and smiled.

*****