Author’s Notes:  As usual, this chapter wound up longer than anticipated, so I made it a whole chapter instead of just an epilogue.  Thank you all so very, very much for sticking with me through this arduous journey.  I have to admit I wasn’t entirely happy with the way the plot turned out, but for your sakes, I knew I had to finish and not leave you hanging.  (And I’ve learned two valuable lessons:  # 1, never begin a story while in a state of extreme emotional distress—the plot will turn out very messy, and # 2, never start posting a story before it’s completely finished, because writer’s block can strike at any time, and it’s not fair to your readers.)  I do apologize many times over for forcing these long waits on you, but the wait is finally over.  Another double-update for your feasting pleasure!

And now, without further ado, I give you the final full chapter!

Chapter Thirteen:  The Last Debates

Minas Tirith, a few days later…

     The company of Rohan had elected to delay its departure for a few more days until its wounded riders were able to travel at speed with the group.  King Elessar had gladly extended the hospitality of Gondor, as King Eomer had also offered to provide additional escort to the company of hobbits when they returned to the Shire in a week.  In the mean time, the elves of Imladris, Lothlorien, and Eryn Lasgalen were also making their preparations for departure.

     Gimli, son of Glóin, idly observed the men of Rohan tending their horses as Lord Elrond and his sons spoke to Queen Arwen.  It was not quite time for the Rivendell party to leave, but already Gimli could see that the Queen and her kinsmen were feeling the impending separation acutely.  Indeed, I find myself sympathizing more with the feelings of elves than I would have ever imagined possible.

     With all the madness of the Black Hunter’s terror and the unexpected orc attack past, Minas Tirith and the guests seemed determined to cram as much merrymaking into the next week as possible.  But since returning from Eryn Harn, Gimli had been gripped by a melancholy that even Merry and Pippin’s best antics could not shake.  His sorrow was such that he had overheard Aragorn comparing his mood to that of Legolas under the worst throws of the sea-longing.  Before all this madness, Gimli would have been highly insulted.  Now…

     I suppose it may be much like that.  Then again, it stands to reason, for it is the sea in a way that is the source of my grief.

     Gimli had hoped desperately that the attack on Ithilien would cause Legolas to see how much he was needed in Middle Earth.  Surely the elf would not abandon Eryn Harn with all that remained to be done.  Gimli would never feel the same attachment to the trees that the Eldar did, but even he could see that the forests were still ailing.  Legolas could not leave the only elven settlement in Middle Earth that was growing rather than shrinking.  Did he not see that it was his initiative, his resilience, and his legend that rallied his people?  If he departed, more would follow, and Eryn Harn would vanish, a mere candle’s flicker as the great flames of elven society died out in this world.

     Gimli sighed to himself, leaning on his axe as men and elves moved around him.  His thoughts were noble, but his deepest motives were selfish, as he knew in his heart.  They had been all along.

     Curse you, elf!  How dare you win over all my disinclinations, dislikes, and prejudices toward your race and you yourself, and then abandon me for Valinor!  Do you not realize what I shall suffer with your going?!

     It rose in the dwarf’s throat like a repressed sob, sheer fury with himself, with Legolas, with the cruel fate that had bound his soul to the elf as surely as to any dwarf who had grown by his side in the mines of Lonely Mountain.  He and Legolas had faced a greater darkness than the deepest coal mine, and now, now when it seemed peace had been restored at last, the elf was fleeing like a coward!

     His fists balled in frustration and grief atop his axe, oblivious to the bustle outside the busy stables.  Who would ever have imagined the loss of an elf could leave a dwarf so low?  Gimli chided himself, You should be grateful.  Two weeks ago you would have sold your soul to Morgoth to know Legolas lived.  Let him find his peace in Valinor with his people.

     A throat was cleared nearby, and Gimli looked to see a hesitant King Eomer watching him.  The horse lord was undoubtedly wondering what could lead Gimli to stand so still with eyes far away in contemplation—like an elf.  Why, an elf, of course!

      “Master Gimli,” Eomer smiled.  “My guards wish to know how many we will be escorting.  Will you be returning to Rohan with our company?”

     Gimli shook his head.  “Nay, my lord.  I’ll be remaining in Minas Tirith a while longer.”

     Eomer looked doubtful.  “You’ve been away from Aglarond nearly two months.”

      “And I’ll be away a while longer!” Gimli snapped.  “My dwarves can manage it fine.  We’re just as capable of using our brains as you men!”

     Stepping back in surprise, Eomer nodded.  “So be it, then.  I’ll inform my men.”  With that, he headed toward the stables, shooting a glance back over his shoulder at Gimli.

     The dwarf grimaced.  I ought not to have spoken to him so.  It was a perfectly reasonable question.

     He was in too uncivil a mood to be here among the clamor where anyone might innocently address him and receive a less than courteous reply.  Gimli headed for the Halls, hoping to find some peace of mind within the comfortingly thick walls of Stone.  And unbeknownst to him as he departed, a slender figure clothed in white stepped from within the doorway where he had been standing, feeling a sorrow just as keen as his own.

***

The next day…

     Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen found his son in the gardens leaning against a tree.  Legolas was singing a song of Valinor and the passage over the sea.  Though it filled Thranduil’s heart with dread, it was hardly a surprise; Legolas sang of little else since falling under the gulls’ sway. 

     And these recent events have done naught but hasten the day when I will lose him.  Then again, he reflected, observing the walls of stone surrounding the garden, perhaps that would be for the best.  Even though I shall be left with yet another hole in my heart.

     Legolas’s voice did not falter when his father joined him in the song.  For several minutes, they sat together, with their voices mingling among the small trees, and the elven king fancied that if he closed his eyes, he would find them singing beneath the eves of Eryn Lasgalen, as they had when Legolas was much younger.

     At last, their song died away, and Legolas looked at him.  “I take it you are to depart soon, Father?”

      “I am,” Thranduil said.  “At dusk.”  Knowing the attempt was vain even as he made it, he asked, “Can I not persuade you to accompany me?”

     To his relief, Legolas did not anger, but merely smiled and shook his head with what might have been regret.  “You know that I cannot.”

      “You have suffered,” Thranduil pressed before he could stop himself.  “Surely you would be better off among your kinsmen than—”

      “—Father.”  Now a hint of warning had entered his son’s voice, and Thranduil bit back his words.  Legolas sighed.  “I am Lord of Eryn Harn.  I cannot go to Eryn Lasgalen when my people—our people—need me here.”  That far-off look that Thranduil had seen all too often among his kindred of late returned with a vengeance to his youngest child’s eyes.  “And I shall not find ease anywhere in Middle Earth.”

     Ai!  Legolas!  It was all Thranduil could do not to seize his son in denial of what the Valar had decreed must be.  Legolas was no different from the thousands of other elves who had strayed too close to the sea.  All of them had eventually left their families for Valinor—the only tragedy was in Thranduil’s mind.  Legolas would be happy there, freed in time of the burdens of shame and humiliation that the Black Hunter’s possession had left.  And if nothing else, at least he will finally be freed of those mortal entanglements.

***

Just after sunset…

     The party of Eryn Lasgalen had long since vanished over the horizon, but a lone figure still stood beyond the gates of Minas Tirith beneath the stars.  The light of Valinor did not set his form aglow as with his elders, but his pale gray raiment shone enough in the moonlight for the one who sought him.

     Not that the Lady Galadriel truly needed her eyes to seek anyone out.  As it was, despite the shimmer of Aman that she herself cast, the son of Thranduil did not even sense her presence until she laid a hand upon his shoulder.  Legolas started, then blushed and bowed.  “My lady.”

     She smiled.  “Are you too come to see the stars, Thranduilion?”

      “Yes.”  He used that as an excuse to turn his face from her without discourtesy, and focused his gaze on the diamond-dusted sky.  “Its lack of trees notwithstanding, I find the most trying flaw in my friends’ city is that its light blots out the lights of Elbereth.”

      “Only to unobservant eyes, Legolas, as you should rightly know,” said the Lady Galadriel.  “All the fires and smoke of Mordor could not blacken the lights of the Valar from our hearts—unless we allow them to do so.”  She pointed to the brightest of them.  “Gil-Estel goes dark not in the heavens, but only to the eyes.”

     The Silmaril seemed to burn brighter as Legolas looked at it, and suddenly he had to pull his gaze away.  “Never has its light failed to comfort me before,” he whispered.

     The Lady brushed a finger across his dry cheek.  “Yet your trouble comes not from the star.”

     Legolas said, “I know this is not the greatest darkness that our people have suffered.  But I know not how to dispel it.”

      “Aye, many of our kindred have suffered such torment and worse.  Do you not know why, Thranduilion?” she asked him.  Legolas looked at her and shook his head.  “Because they stood not alone.”

      “But what of those who fell to the Stone, my lady?  It tears at my heart, not knowing their fate.  Were they received at Mandos or were they sundered forever by Sauron’s arts, condemned unjustly to be Houseless?” Legolas asked, hoping she might know the answer.

     The way her eyes slid from him said that she did not.  “Since nearly joining them, your thoughts have been occupied much by the dead, Legolas.”

      “I was among them for a time,” he replied softly.  “Such torment and fear, the uncertainty.  So many children…” then he flinched and broke off, remembering belatedly that Galadriel’s own child had fallen to Disaran.

     Of course, she knew at once when it came to him.  “You need not apologize, Legolas of Ithilien.  Your concern for them does you credit.  But I will impart on you what I myself have learnt, these long years faced with so much sorrow and loss.  We the living are not meant to know the secrets of the dead.  We may only keep faith that the Valar shall not allow an unjust fate upon them.  It is not ours to know yet.  We must concern ourselves with the living.” 

     Her eyes shimmered until he saw the starlight within them, and then it seemed that the faces of all those he loved swam before his eyes unbidden.  He saw his father, not mourning or haggard as he had been these past days, but walking across the plains back toward Eryn Lasgalen with an air of hope about him, his face toward the stars.  In Eryn Lasgalen, several of his sisters and brothers yet lingered, and a niece, and many elven friends who had yet to depart Middle Earth. 

     And then came the Fellowship in his mind’s vision, and Legolas felt as though his heart stretched out its arms to them.  The hobbits, the dear, gentle, laughing hobbits, Pippin and Merry—yes, merry indeed, in spite of it all.  Loyal, steadfast Samwise, with his growing hobbit family whom Legolas had yet to meet, and his legendary gardens.  And Frodo…brave, noble Frodo, the Ringbearer, the savior of them all.  Such friends they were to him.  So precious.  Mithrandir, the wise Maia who had saved Legolas’s life once, very long ago, and whose counsel had carried them so well through the War of the Ring.  Ai, it had been such a wrench, believing him gone.  But he had returned.  And he remained with them again.  Aragorn.  Elessar.  The Ranger had been as a brother to him for so long, through such adventures, when they both had been so much younger.  To see him come to his destiny at last had brought such joy to Legolas—both destinies, as King of Gondor and husband to Arwen Undómiel.  And…

     Gimli.  By far the strangest and yet most beloved being in Middle Earth to Legolas.  Aye, I have known the fabled hospitality of the dwarves.  You have long since introduced me to it, yet none of those great roaring fires or feasts have struck me so as your own friendship, these past years.  How very strange, that it is your loss I shall mourn the most, if the loss of any of you may be measured.

     Galadriel’s eyes sparkled at him.  “It strikes me not as strange, Thranduilion.”

      “Each in his own way has given much in the War, my lady, and in these past days.  Is there no solace for them?” Legolas asked.

      “For each in his own way, there shall be solace.  Do you not know already?”

     Legolas thought.  “Aragorn…he has all that he was born to be, in Gondor, and for himself, there is Arwen.  She is his balm.”

     Galadriel nodded.  “The elven grace of the Evenstar may diminish, but she has gained grace of a different sort, which none shall begrudge her.  It is the same grace that Luthien chose before her, and that the Valar have blessed.  Elessar’s reign shall be so blessed.”

      “And the hobbits…well, Merry and Pippin have each other, I think.  All the hobbits have the Shire still.”  Legolas looked hesitantly at her.  “I know what grace you have given Frodo and Bilbo.  Mithrandir will doubtless go with you.”

     The Lady smiled.  “He will.  And if he should choose one day, Samwise too shall be granted passage as a Ringbearer.”

      “I am glad of that,” said Legolas.  Then he murmured, “And Gimli, he has Aglarond…” but he could not finish.

     Galadriel stepped closer to him.  “Is your own colony solace enough to you, Legolas?”  Closing his eyes, he shook his head.  Her voice was quiet, yet hard.  “Gimli has you, Legolas Thranduilion.  He has also my favor, and one day it shall obtain great grace for him, but that day is not yet come, and while the memories of grief weigh heavy, Gimli son of Glóin has looked to you for ease of them.”  Legolas’s eyes opened, and he stared at her.  “Have you not also turned to him in the past when the War has loomed heavy on your memory?  Why do you hesitate now?”

     The wind whispered over dry winter grass, mingling with his sigh.  “The War of the Ring has been heavy enough upon their hearts.  I would not wish to burden my friends with this sorrow.”

      “Think you their sorrow will be lessened by your flight?” He was startled to hear a sharpness in her voice.  It was reflected in her flashing eyes.  “Would you have them flee Middle Earth in their grief for you?”

     The question was absurd.  “Of course not!” he exclaimed.  “None of my mortal friends could leave Middle Earth save to die—excepting Frodo, I am told,” he added.  But something in the lady’s eyes chilled his heart.  “What?  What are you trying to tell me?”

     Galadriel’s eyes…they seemed to pull him, drawing him in, until…

***

     It was the prison again, late at night.  He could see Gandalf and Gimli, standing in the doorway, their faces shadowed as they had been when they had believed Legolas dead.  Across from them, wearing the look of one mad with grief, was Aragorn. “I can’t do it, Gandalf!  He was my friend, a guest in my city, under my protection, and he died alone in my streets!  I cannot live with that!”  Shaking his head, he muttered, “I must try.”

     Try…what? Legolas wondered in disbelief.  He had not known his death had lain Aragorn so low.

      “By the Valar, THINK, Aragorn!” cried Frodo, appearing behind the dwarf and Maia.  “Legolas would never forgive you!  And it wouldn’t just be yourself; you’d be killing Arwen too!  Everyone knows what fate awaits her if you should die!”

     By the Valar…what did Aragorn intend?  The Stone of Ar-Pharazôn glimmered wickedly in the King of Gondor’s hand.

      “And it would be vain,” said Gandalf.  “You may be of Númenórean descent, but Legolas is an elf.  You have not enough life force to restore his immortality.  Even if it granted him anything at all, his life would be diminished at best.”

     By the Valar…Legolas realized what Aragorn was attempting to do.  This could not be!  He would never have tried something so foolish!

      “That’s better than death,” muttered Aragorn. 

      “Legolas might disagree, and it is not for you to make that choice for him,” said Gandalf.

     Aragorn sighed, and his shoulders slumped.  Then he suddenly attempted to jerk past Gandalf, causing cries of alarm from Frodo and Gimli as the Maia rushed to restrain him.  “No!  Aragorn, no!”

     Legolas cried out instinctively along with them.

      “I must try!” the King cried, attempting to fight his way past them. 

     He nearly managed to wrench himself from the wizard’s hands and gain the door, but Gimli slammed an open hand into his wrist, forcing his hand to drop the fatal Stone.  The dwarf seized it as Frodo threw himself in front of Aragorn, sobbing, “Strider, please!  Don’t!”

***

      “NO!” Legolas returned to himself as his knees gave way and he landed with a jarring thud upon the hard ground.  “No,” he whispered, pleading with the watching Lady Galadriel to deny what he had seen.  “It is not true.  It cannot be!  He would never…”

      “He tried, Legolas.  He tried,” said Galadriel.  “It was then that the Stone was destroyed by Gimli, to prevent Elessar from surrendering his life to it.”

     Legolas suddenly recalled something Disaran had said, soon after the elf’s spirit had appeared in the prison.  “Elessar snuck back in here by night and tried to take the thing to the House of Kings where your body lies, to give his own life to you.  Nothing would stop him, not mention of his worth to the world, nor his wife, nor his friends.  All I intended was to sustain my life for another hundred years or so, but I may have destroyed the King of Gondor!”

      “Disaran…he told me,” Legolas whispered, his insides twisting at the memory.  “I had forgotten.  He told me that first day after I…returned.  I did not believe him.”

      “The Black Hunter spoke the truth, in that at least,” said the Lady Galadriel.  Even as she spoke, Legolas rose to his feet and started back toward Minas Tirith.

***

     As Aragorn returned to his chambers after a rather long evening of hearing petitions, sharp, jarring footsteps coming down the corridor caused him to wonder if King Thranduil had returned.  For the steps were too light to be a man, yet hard and tense for an elf.  He turned to wait, and was highly startled when Legolas came around the corner.  “I must speak with you,” said his elven friend, his gray eyes dark with many emotions. 

     Alarmed, Aragorn simply beckoned for Legolas to accompany him back to his chambers.  Both were silent until they reached the suite, and Legolas visibly bit back his words at the sight of Arwen already there.  She sensed at once something was wrong.  “Legolas?  What is amiss, my friend?” she asked, rising from the chair where she had been half-heartedly embroidering.

     With a hasty bow, Legolas said quietly, “I apologize, my lady.  It is…merely an urgent matter of which I must speak to Aragorn.”  His face colored, but Arwen understood his meaning.

      “I shall make myself scarce then,” she said with a faint smile.

     “Will you be sparring again with Lady Eowyn?” asked Aragorn.

     Arwen shook her head.  “I shall seek her out for instruction perhaps, but I fear there shall be no sparring for some time.”

     Aragorn and Legolas shared a startled glance.  “Something is amiss with her?” asked Legolas.

     Shaking her head again, the Queen of Gondor replied, “Nay, nothing is amiss.  But the Healers banned her today from any rough activity such as sparring, for it might prove injurious in her condition.”

     “In her cond—oh.  I see.” Aragorn felt himself blush a little.

     Arwen glanced back at them from the door, and looked at Legolas with gentle eyes.  “Be well, my friend.” 

     The two watched her go, then Aragorn turned to his friend, troubled by his desire for Arwen’s absence.  “What, Legolas?”

     The elf’s gray eyes were large and dark, almost pleading.  He took a hesitant step forward.  “Aragorn…I had…there was something I was told.  By Disaran, about the manner of my…return.  I had not believed it to be true.  I hope that you will tell me it is not.”

     For a moment, Aragorn was merely confused.  Then his mind connected what Legolas was saying, and a cold knot of dread formed in his stomach.  Yes, he should have expected that Legolas would eventually learn of the chain of events that had led to Gimli’s destroying the Stone.  And that his friend would demand an accounting.  “I know not precisely what the Black Hunter told you.  But I fear that the worst of it is true.”

     Legolas’s breath caught.  “You attempted to use the Stone?”

      “If it is any ease to your mind, I got no further than the prison door.  It seems Gandalf and Gimli anticipated me.  And Frodo and your father.”  Aragorn could no longer meet the elf’s eyes.  “I know many things you would say, Legolas.  I can offer no accounting.  It was a mad notion.  Only that I—” his own breath suddenly caught, and he cursed himself for his weakness, then and now.  He turned his back to hide his brimming eyes.  “In my grief, I could think of naught but escape from the torment.”

      “Not even Arwen?” Unable to speak, Aragorn shook his head.  Strong archer’s hands clapped down upon his shoulders and spun him around, forcing him despite his shame to look into Legolas’s anguished face.  To his astonishment and further grief, the elf was weeping.  “Aragorn, by the Valar, what befell you?  All of you?  You nearly cast aside your life, your Queen, and the entire realm of men, and Gimli—ai Elbereth!  Gimli destroyed the book and cursed his own people…blamed them, his race, himself—it was not grief, it was madness!  I am not the first friend that any here has seen fall before his time, and yet you—”

      “By Ilúvatar’s rule, what do you wish me to say?!” Aragorn cried, cutting Legolas off.  “Yes, it was madness, I know that!  I cannot justify it, but say only that your loss brought me more pain, Legolas, more despair, than I have ever felt in my lifetime.  Is that what you wish to know?  What drove us?”  He gripped his friend’s arms, trying to make him—and himself—understand.  “You are…Legolas, I count you among the greatest friends I have ever known.  I have known death before, but yours left me in such pain that I thought I would die.  You are of the Fellowship, a hero throughout Middle Earth, but do you not realize that each of us was certain that you were the one among us whom we would never have to mourn?  You’re an elf!  You were not meant to die before us!”

     Only then did he realize what he was saying and cut himself off, but it was too late.  Legolas’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment, before he whispered, “It is because I am Eldar that you grieved so?”

     With a half-sob, half-snort of disgust, Aragorn clouted the elf upside the head.  “No, you great fool.  I told you.  It is because to each of us, Gimli, I, and the others, you are the dearest of friends, and we love you.  If your race affected our pain, it is only in our stupidity in taking your presence for granted, as though your immortality went beyond the mere span of life and could protect you from sword and arrow.”  He sat down with a thud on the couch, sheepishly wiping his face.  Legolas thumped down next to him, both of them leaning forward with their elbows on the knees like the sorriest sots upon a fallen log.  That fact seemed to strike them both at once, and they began to laugh through their tears.  Aragorn unashamedly slung an arm around Legolas’s shoulders.  “Ai, my friend, for all that you may have seen or been told of the state of me after your fall, you cannot comprehend my horror.  I feared that I had not taken the proper time to tell you all that you had meant to me, since the first time we met, all your friendship had meant, nor cherished properly the days we spent in each other’s company, for all the time, I felt secure in my faith that you would be here long after I had gone.”

     Legolas wiped his own eyes and stared at his knees, looking thoughtful.  “Nay, my friend.  Not that long.  Even if the Black Hunter had not crossed my path, I would not have lingered in Middle Earth long past your lifetime.”  He looked back up at Aragorn.  “Think you I shall feel any less anguish at your passing?  Think you my immortality comes as any solace to me?  At times it is a torment, this knowledge that I must live to see the end of every life of the Fellowship save my own—and perhaps Mithrandir’s.  Ai, it is enough to send me fleeing to the Undying Lands alone, just for the scant consolation that I would not have to face each of you in your final hours.”

     The elf seemed to cringe in physical pain, and Aragorn put a hand back upon his shoulders.  “We would not deny you the sea.  All of us have seen your suffering.  When you go we shall wish you well.”

     He was given a highly un-elvish snort in reply.  “You hide a lie in the truth, Strider.  You wish me well, but not gone.”

     Aragorn sighed.  “Aye, I suppose so.  But mistake me not, my friend, not a one of us would stand in your way, nor wish you anything but well in your going to the home of your people.  It is your destiny as an elf, and your right now more than ever.”

      “But?”  Legolas sat up straighter and looked at Aragorn, who in turn hunched over a little more.

      “But,” he sighed again.  “It is true that we shall mourn your absence until the very end of our days.  Still,” he forced himself to straighten up again.  “It is not reason enough for you to linger.  We shall endure,” he smiled wryly.  “Knowing that you are safe and well in the Undying Lands, where you may find healing.  Your presence shall be missed desperately, but it shall not be the agony that your death was.  We shall be glad for you.”

     Legolas was quiet, not quite looking at him, his eyes thoughtful.  “I…understand.”  His brow furrowed.

      “Legolas?  What troubles you still?”  Aragorn sat up again and watched the elf, but Legolas did not seem to be listening.

     At length, his friend murmured, “Promise me you shall never attempt such foolishness again for my sake, Aragorn.”

     Soberly, Aragorn took his hand.  “I promise never to attempt suicide again.  But as for foolishness, I fear I can make no such promise,” he said, opting for levity.  Legolas blinked at him, and the King of Gondor smiled.  “I fear I may always be driven somewhat beyond good sense where my truest friends are concerned.  So you shall have to make do.”

     The elf stared at him for several moments, then a smile slowly curved his lips, and he began to laugh, reaching up and slapping Aragorn on the head in his turn.  “Idiot mortal.”

      “Crazy elf.”

      “By the Valar, we sound like Gimli and…and…well, me, I suppose.”

***

The next morning…

     Frodo had risen early and was wandering the Halls of Kings when a familiar elven voice raised in song caught his ear.  The Ringbearer was startled, not by the voice itself but by the song, which had a wistful, almost hopeful tone about it.  This particular voice had sung many mornings and evenings of late in the gardens, yet Frodo had heard nothing but sorrow in the notes until now.  And it sprung hope to life in his own heart as he walked to the gardens to greet the singer. 

     Legolas broke off his song as Frodo approached.  “Good morning, Master Hobbit.  You rise early.”

      “Sometimes I wake earlier than I had planned, but find I cannot go to sleep again,” said Frodo with a shrug.  At the elf’s troubled expression, he explained, “It has always been thus.  Bilbo was the same.  That’s when he would work on the Red Book.”  He sat down on a Stone bench beneath a tree, sighing contentedly in the cool morning air.

     Legolas came to join him.  “What book was that?”

      “His account of his adventures, in Rivendell and Mirkwood.”

      “Ah, I remember,” the elf laughed.  “At the Council of Elrond.  He was persuaded to give up his offer to carry the Ring in favor of finishing the book.  And he owes you a sequel now, I recall.” 

      “Nay, I am writing the sequel,” said Frodo.

     Perhaps it was only wishful thinking, but Legolas’s eyes seemed brighter than they had been recently.  His friend smiled and nodded slowly.  “Then perhaps you should have brought it with you.  The Red Book.”

      “I did.”  Frodo smiled back.  “I worked on it for two hours before my hand became sore,” he rubbed the writing hand and grimaced.  “Then I decided to take a walk.”  Legolas’s gaze fell upon Frodo’s right hand, missing its third finger, and his face grew troubled.  Hastily, Frodo explained, “I write with my left hand now.  It can hold a quill, but it’s not used to writing, so it tires easily.”

      “Such pains you have endured, Ringbearer,” murmured the elf, his gray eyes dark and sad.

      “We all have,” said Frodo, not wanting to talk of such things.  “Anyway, you know my plans.”

      “And I have kept faith and said nothing,” Legolas confirmed with a nod.  Frodo eyed him, and the elf smiled slightly.  The wind brushed his fair hair as he raised his face to the sun, now beginning to rise above the city walls.  “You still think to leave within the year?”

      “Aye,” said Frodo softly.  Hope flickered within him again.  He certainly did not begrudge Legolas the journey over the seas—indeed it was his right far more than Frodo’s, a birthright—nor would he be sorry at all to have another friend’s company on the journey.  Yet…something in the back of Frodo’s heart seemed to sorrow at the thought of Legolas leaving Middle Earth so soon. 

     Evidently, it showed upon his face, for Legolas had turned to look at him.  “What troubles you, Ringbearer?”

      “I…it is nothing,” Frodo began, but the elf merely raised an eyebrow, in a fashion that made him look so like Lord Elrond that the hobbit had to laugh.  He suspected King Thranduil must have looked just this way at Bilbo once.  I must be sure to ask him more about Legolas’s father.  “You see through me, Master Elf.”

      “Well enough,” replied the elf drolly, and Frodo laughed again.  Legolas laughed too, then sat down beside him once more and persisted, “Come, tell me your thoughts?”

      “It’s just…you’ve every right to go, of course,” said Frodo hesitantly.  “It’s only…I know nothing of the sea-longing, or really elves themselves—”

      “Nonsense, Frodo, you know far more of us than most mortals, and understand us better than most may hope to.  Else you would not have been invited to Valinor,” said Legolas.  “Tell me.”

      “I just have this feeling, that’s all,” Frodo sighed.  Seeing that his friend would not desist until the troubling feeling was unburdened, he explained, “Just that you shouldn’t go just yet.  I don’t know why.  You’ve been through so much, and with the sea-longing already—sweet Elbereth, you’ve more than your share of right to go.”  He shrugged helplessly.  “You needn’t mind my silly hunches.”

     Legolas met Frodo’s sheepish smile with solemn gray eyes, then his gaze drifted away, lost in his thoughts.  Frodo was wondering if he should leave, when Legolas murmured, “For all you have been through, my brave and noble friend, it would be a fool indeed who disregarded any feeling or hunch of yours.”

     Frodo felt himself blush.  “You’re kind to say so, Master Elf.”  Legolas looked back at him once more and smiled.  “Are you to join us then?”

     The breeze rustled the dying leaves overhead for several moments before Legolas answered.  “I shall speak to Lord Elrond.  He will tell me when your time has come to go, and even if I am not among the party, I shall send word.”

      “I’m glad of that, Legolas.  Else I’d be worried about you.”

     For some reason, that made the elf laugh out loud.

***

Later that day…

      “Aragorn told me of your meeting with him,” said Gimli by way of greeting when Legolas came to join him on the wall. 

      “Did he?”

      “Aye.”  Legolas frowned to himself.  Gimli seemed out of sorts.  But then the dwarf remarked, “I’m sorry.  I thought by now you had heard all that transpired, or else I’d have told you myself.”

     For some reason, Legolas felt a great aversion to being burdened with ill feelings anymore this day.  He leaned into the breeze, still blowing strong and clean from the northeast—carrying the clean scents of Mirkwood rather than the stench of Mordor or the tormenting salty call of the sea—and answered, “Nay, it is not your fault.  I have avoided hearing tale of the sorrows that passed during that time.  I did not seek out any answers.  I think now it is better that I face what transpired.”

     Gimli shrugged, still leaning on his axe and looking down.  “Is there aught else you wish to be acquainted with?”

      “Naught that I am aware of,” Legolas sighed, deciding that ill memory was going to cloud this clear day whether he wanted it to or not.  Just when I was beginning to feel free.  “I wish Frodo had not been there to see Aragorn in that state.  He has enough sorrow to contend with.”

     Shaking his head, Gimli agreed, “We tried to make him wait, but he wouldn’t.  He had stayed behind the night that…”

      “I see,” said Legolas softly, putting a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.  “He did not wish to be forced to wait for news again.”

      “Aye.  In the end,” Gimli glanced up at the banners of Gondor snapping in the air, “in the end, I think his presence there did Aragorn some good, at least.  Didn’t bring the man all the way back to his senses, but somewhat.  Enough that Gandalf and I could get a grip on him.”

      “I have already had words with him on that score.”

     Gimli let out a bark of laughter.  “Hah!  Good.  Idiot needed to hear it from you.  Mahal knows he wasn’t listening to the rest of us.”

      “You’d do well to heed your own advice, Master Dwarf,” said Legolas softly, watching his friend carefully.

     Gimli’s head snapped up to face him.  “What are you talking about, Elf?  I never—”

     Legolas dropped to his knees, startling Gimli, so that he could look the dwarf straight in the eyes.  “Forget not that I could see you, once the Stone was destroyed.  When you were alone, no longer hiding your grief, more than once I heard words from you that I should have beaten any who told them to me, had I not witnessed it myself.”  Gimli cringed, undoubtedly remembering his actions when he had visited the elf’s empty room, and Legolas went on quietly, “I would have wept, had I been able, to see you place blame upon yourself and your people, where I laid no blame upon you.”

     The axe clattered to the ground, and Legolas quickly picked it up and set it gently to one side as Gimli leaned against the wall, his face long with sad memory.  “Blast it, Elf, why did you have to worm your way into my affections?  I would have done anything to restore you.”

      “Now I am restored.”

      “Only to run away again!” The words burst out before Gimli could stop them, and Legolas saw the dwarf’s eyes widen in dismay, and he raised a hand.  “Legolas, I do not mean—”

      “Nay, my friend, I see your meaning,” said Legolas.  He forced a smile at the dwarf, although inside he felt he was being torn violently in two.  Perhaps Aragorn will console himself at my going; he has lost elven friends and kin to the sea before.  But Gimli!  He shall grieve just as he did at my death!  Despair swept over him, remembering Frodo’s words.  Even the Ringbearer felt that this was wrong.  “Do not apologize for it.  I would always rather have the truth of your heart from you.”

      “Then you know it already, so don’t ask me to say it,” said the dwarf gruffly, looking away.

     Legolas changed the subject.  “What said my father when Aragorn went mad?  I should like to see him deny Aragorn’s friendship still, after that.”

     Gimli snorted.  “Oh, he does, Legolas, he does.  And don’t ask me to repeat what passed between myself and him if you haven’t heard it already.  Much use he did us while Aragorn was trying to steal the Stone from the prison.”

     Then it was Legolas’s turn to snort.  “Aragorn said he had appeared as well.  Followed you to keep his superior elven eyes on things, I suppose?”

      “No, not that time, he showed his superior elven precognition by getting there before us.  I didn’t even see him until the Stone was destroyed.  He certainly didn’t come out during the spat with Aragorn.  Must’ve been hiding and gloating the whole time in the shadows,” said Gimli, shaking his head.  “I can’t deny he grieved for you, my friend, but he certainly made our lives as difficult as he could.”  Then he looked up and saw Legolas’s face.  “Er, no offense.”

      “What?  I…none…take…what do you mean, he was there before you?” asked Legolas, feeling as if an icy hand had squeezed his heart.  “What was he doing?”

      “I don’t know, I told you.  The first I saw of him that night was when he burst out of the shadows on the opposite side of the prison when I took my axe to the Stone.  He didn’t want me to destroy it either; I imagine he held out some hope that…what, Legolas?”

     Legolas put a hand upon the wall, gazing out over Minas Tirith, trying to steady himself.  By the Valar…what had his father been doing there?  “You say he was hidden within the prison when you came?”

      “I assume so, yes,” said Gimli, looking puzzled.  “There’d been no sign of him the whole time we confronted Aragorn, but he is an elf, after all.  You’ve hidden from me in places with less shadow than that prison.”

      “But when you went to destroy the Stone, he tried to stop you?” whispered the elf. 

      “That’s right,” said Gimli, then comprehension filled his face.  “Blessed Mahal, Elf.  You think…” 

     A Elbereth Gilthoniel, Father.  What did you intend to do?  Legolas feared his legs would no longer support him, and sank to the stone ground beside Gimli, who rested a hand on his shoulder.  “Do you think so?” he asked the dwarf numbly.

     Gimli was silent for many heartbeats before answering quietly.  “I don’t like your lord father, Elf.  Never will.  And it’s very mutual, you can be sure.”  Several more heartbeats passed.  “But like as not, I saw plenty of him in the days after Disaran struck.  He was there that afternoon, when Gandalf and Lord Celeborn told us the Stone could only affect him that held it—and we were all too busy watching how Aragorn reacted.”

      “You think he might have attempted it?” asked Legolas.

      “Aye, lad.  Now that I think about it…the way he was that night…I think he meant to do it.”

      “A Elbereth, Gimli!” Legolas buried his face in his hands.  “Why could so many be driven to such utter madness over me?  Aragorn, Faramir, you, and now my father as well!”

      “It’s no fault of yours, Legolas.  He obviously thought you were worth such a sacrifice,” said the dwarf quietly.  “And in that at least, I agree with him.”

      “I will never be worth such a sacrifice as that,” Legolas whispered.

      “Shut up, Elf.  No sense having this argument.  It’s moot now, thank the Valar, and these past events already say you’ll lose.”  Gimli gruffly picked up his axe and jabbed Legolas with the handle.  “Up now, and cease these maudlin thoughts.  It’s not you that gets to judge your worth, anyhow.  It’s those around you.”

     Legolas grinned.  “I know that mortal saying.  ‘No man is measured by the love he gives to others…’”

      “‘…But by how much he is loved.’  Aye, lad.  And like it or not, you’ve been measured and found worthy indeed.”

      “Thank you, Gimli.”

      “You’re welcome.  Great Mahal, are you blushing?!”

      “No!  Of course not!”

      “I think you are!”

      “It is the sun in your eyes, stupid dwarf!”

      “Crazy elf!”

      “Do you know, I had precisely this exchange with Aragorn, last night?”

      “There again, it’s two against one.  You’re mad, elf.  Stark, raving mad.” 

      “If there’s one thing these events have taught us, it is that I may not rely upon your sanity, Master Dwarf.”

      “I shall not dignify that with an answer.”

      “Meaning you’ve none to offer.”

      “Don’t flatter yourself, Elf.  And if you’ve already had words with Aragorn on the subject of his lunacy, I suggest you hasten after that scapegrace father of yours!”

     Legolas sighed and followed Gimli back into the palace.  “I think I shall, my friend.  If he was driven to such a state, then I would like to speak to him.  I fear perhaps I was not aware of the true depth of his feelings.”

      “I doubt you’ll change his feelings towards us,” said Gimli.  “He won’t get over that until you’re well gone from Middle Earth.”

      “Ahem.  Gimli…about that…” Legolas began, then broke off, his own thoughts sweeping him away as surely as waves upon the sea.

     Gimli noticed and frowned at him.  “What, Elf?”  Legolas swallowed convulsively, the feelings of being torn assailing him again, with still more power.  The presence of the dwarf, dearest of so many infinitely dear friends, had been as a balm to his soul in these last moments.  The tears he had shed with Aragorn the night before had done the same, as if washing away the feeling of utter wretchedness that had clung to him like a stench since his escape from Disaran’s hold.  And Frodo…Frodo, the mortal Ringbearer, he himself felt that Legolas had something yet to remain in Middle Earth for.  A hand came to rest upon his shoulder, disturbing his thoughts, but not in the least unwelcome.  “Legolas?”

     “Gimli…” he whispered, looking at the dwarf in confusion.  His friend’s black eyes were rather wide in alarm, disturbed by Legolas’s sudden disorientation.  Indeed, Legolas could not comprehend the feelings, desires, and bonds that seemed to tug at him from every direction.  Finally, he blurted out, “I am an elf.” 

     Now completely baffled, Gimli replied, “That has been brought to my attention.”

     Legolas made a failed attempt to smile at the remark, then tried to explain his thoughts.  “What I mean is…my destiny is not here.”  The dwarf comprehended at last what Legolas was trying to say, and the way his face fell told Legolas that Gimli could not hide his grief at the words.  “It is the fate of all my people, that we must in the end travel over the sea to the Undying Lands.  Indeed, the sea calls me with such urging that there are times when I fear my soul will be torn from my body if I do not obey.  It is as you say, my father wishes me safely there.  It is in my blood.  It is what I am.”  He kept his eyes on the rough surface of the stone wall in front of them, fighting to hide his despair and…he had to admit…fear at the conflict within him.  A battle being fought between two worlds.  He swallowed dryly and went on.  “I am an elf, and my blood calls me back to Valinor.  Only…” he took a deep breath, “…I do not wish to go.”

     A great rush of released breath told him Gimli had been holding his.  The dwarf let out a sudden laugh, but there was a tremor in it, and when he clapped Legolas roughly upon the back, the grip lasted for a moment longer than usual.  “Then don’t, you stupid elf.  Your mad elven senses may be telling you one thing, but your heart tells you another.”

     “But it is not so easy as that!” Legolas cried, turning to face Gimli.  “How can I ignore the destiny of my people?”

     The dwarf looked disgusted.  “By the Valar, Legolas, apparently it’s you who needs to be reminded of your race.  You’re an elf, remember?  Elves are immortal, or have you forgotten?  If you don’t want to go, then don’t…yet.”

     “Yet?” breathed Legolas.

     “Aye, fool Elf.” Gimli shook his head as though speaking to a slow child.  “I may not care much for most of your flighty, fanciful race, but credit me with knowing a few things.  I know most elves who fall to the sea-longing go as soon as possible, but never heard anything to suggest that it’s a life-and-death choice.  They go because they’ve nothing to stay for that won’t be joining them in Valinor sometime in the future.  That’s why your people keep to themselves and avoid mortal entanglements, eh?  Nothing I know of you, the sea-longing, or elves in general leads me to believe this is an all-or-nothing choice you face.  Obviously you do have things to stay for, things which, alas, you won’t be seeing again in your Undying Lands.”  The thought made Legolas wince, and Gimli chuckled, patting his back again.  “If you don’t want to go yet, then don’t.  Stay while you wish to, then go when your elven blood and your heart both tell you to.”

     He made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, yet Legolas gaped at him for several moments.  So simple.  So very simple.  By delaying to go, you give up nothing, Thranduilion.  The Undying Lands will wait for you.  The elf gasped softly; the voice in his mind was not his own. 

     “By the Valar, what ails you, Elf?”

     Legolas could not speak.  He rose swiftly and peered over the wall, but saw no one.  Still, the sense of another’s presence, not physical but in another fashion, did not leave him.  It is a powerful bond you have made, Legolas.  Few mortals are granted the title of elf-friend, and still fewer have been so loved by the Eldar as Eärendil or Beren.  Such a comparison startled Legolas, but it seemed to him as though Galadriel stood before him, the stars bright in her eyes. Aye, Thranduilion, the deeds of the son of Glóin have placed him among them.  Do you disbelieve this?  You know the fate of the Ringbearer.  Legolas listened in shock as comprehension of the Lady’s meaning dawned upon him, and his heart, so torn until now, seemed about to burst with joy.  It seemed to him that he felt her smile.  Gimli has my favor, as I told you before, Legolas.  And the time will come when it shall obtain great grace for him.  You will know when that time arrived.

     Then her presence left him just as a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him vigorously. “Legolas!  What the blazes is the matter with you?”

     Legolas grinned helplessly at Gimli as though seeing him for the first time after a prolonged separation.  “Nothing, elvellon.  Nothing at all.  At last, I see clearly.”

     The dwarf frowned suspiciously at him—with good reason, for such a broad smile was seen most often when the elf had some mischief planned.  “Then what do you intend to do?”

     The smile softened, but lost none of its warmth, as Legolas reached out in turn and gripped Gimli’s shoulder.  “How long has it been since you visited the Lonely Mountain, Gimli?”

     Still eyeing Legolas doubtfully, the dwarf nonetheless pondered the question.  “Not since we left for Aglarond.  Why?”

     Legolas shrugged.  “Oh, it is merely that I must take a trip to Eryn Lasgalen very soon, and thought that perhaps you would care to accompany me.  It would give you the opportunity to see your kinsmen while I am visiting mine.”

     Watching Legolas closely, there was a glimmer of hope in Gimli’s eyes.  “Indeed, that would be a welcome opportunity.  And what occasion have you to see your kindred in Eryn Lasgalen?”

     Legolas pretended to be affronted.  “Must a son have an occasion to irritate his father?”

     Gimli let out a bark of laughter.  “Certainly not, if you’re that son.”  Then he looked seriously at Legolas.  “And how shall you be irritating him this time, Elf, if my presence is not the only means of doing so?”

     Legolas decided it was time to cease teasing his friend.  “It shall not be entirely an irritant,” he said softly.  “For I shall tell my father that while he must put up with my ‘mortal entanglements’ all the longer, both he and said mortals shall find Middle Earth graced with my presence for quite some time yet.”

     The dwarf drew in a shaky breath that startled Legolas in its nearness to a sob.  “Then you’re not to go?”

     With a smile, Legolas returned the fierce grip on his shoulder.  “No.  I shall go, in time.  But not yet.”  Not until I know that you shall be ready to join me.

***

Elsewhere…in a place where time has no meaning…

     Disaran’s initial fury that his quest for immortality had been thwarted by the dwarf was ended by the surprising discovery that death did not seem so bad.  There was a definite slowing sensation, until he found that he could not mark at all the passage of time, and the feeling of flight, or floating, away from his beheaded body and the light of that accursed elf-woman who had come to avenge her son.

     Hah!  In  a way he was rather glad that it had been the dwarf who slew him.  Even in death, he had escaped the hands of the Eldar.  And if this was death, well…it really was not so bad.  All pain and weariness had fallen from him.  Perhaps death was, in a way, an immortality all its own.  He could not complain of that.

     He tried once or twice as his—soul?  spirit?—drifted to direct himself here or there to the Earth, but he seemed to be pulled beyond Middle Earth, ever more swiftly west.  He could not be sure how precisely he knew that he was moving to the West, but it was certain.  After an indistinct fragment of time, he found his soul passing over unfamiliar yet fabulous shores, and then it struck him.  The Undying Lands!  Of course!  Of course!  The very haven of elvendom itself, the home of the Valar!  The goal of the thwarted Ar-Pharazôn!

     As he was drawn ever closer to the fabled Halls of Waiting, he sensed that he was not alone.  Other spirits were present, moving towards the Halls of Mandos and already within it, yet there were no humans here, he sensed.  Only Eldar.  Yes, if a spirit had a sense of smell, these smelled like elves, all right.  And if there were any doubt, the definite sense of revulsion he caught from them laid it to rest.  The other presences did seem to recoil from him, not in fear as they had in life, but in absolute disgust.  He dismissed it as he was passed over the threshold.  They had no say as to his fate here.

     Disaran’s feet touched the ground within the threshold of the Halls of Mandos so suddenly that he stumbled to his knees.  Looking down at his once-again visible body, he felt the rush of air into his lungs and nearly shouted in triumph.  He was alive again!  There could be no doubt!  His body was heavy, but strong and hale, as it had been just before his fall.  He had beaten those accursed elves!

     Before he could do more than examine his limbs and feel that his head was no longer severed from his body, a very powerful presence seemed to loom before him, and Disaran knew at once he was facing one of the Valar.  Its light burned brilliant in his face, half-blinding him, but Disaran could tell through much squinting and flinching that it was the form of an elven man.  Probably Mandos.  Bowing or kneeling did not even occur to him.

     So you are come before me at last, Disaran, the Vala said, the very Halls echoing with his voice.  It did serve to make Disaran flinch.  I have long awaited you.

      “Have you been searching for me, mighty one of Valinor?” asked Disaran, feeling a swell of pride.  “Is your attention drawn to a mortal who defies death?”

     Nay, proud and greedy man, but to them who inflict it through the arts of darkness. 

      “Perhaps if you Valar had offered men immortality we wouldn’t need to resort to those arts,” Disaran retorted bitterly.  Was this Vala judging him evil, simply for trying to have immortality for himself?

     Yea, murderer.  What name would you bestow upon him who slays the innocent to serve himself?

      “You Valar chose to slay us when we’ve barely lived a twinkle in your eyes,” protested Disaran.  “Why don’t we have a right to the gifts you lavish on your elves?”

     The fury of Mandos seemed to burn bright and hot against Disaran’s face, and he flinched involuntarily.  You, child of men, slayer of innocents, you presume to judge the will of Ilúvatar?  You presumed such when you had not lived but a glimmer of light upon the water, but a single beat in an insect’s wings of our life, you presumed then you had a right to rob others of life?  To take what was never meant to be yours?

      “And what do you intend to do to me for it now?” spat Disaran.  “Kill me again?”

     Beyond the Vala, many other invisible spirits lingered; Disaran could still feel them.  All at once, they began to appear to him, as if the light of the angry Mandos was enough to bring them into focus.  He could see them, if vaguely, just enough to make out their faces.  Well, what a surprise!  Just behind and to the left of the Vala was an elven boy, still very much a youth, fair-haired, with shadows of a noble line in his face.  Indoran, son of Celeborn and Galadriel.  Another, close by, was older, a strong, able elven man, cut down in his prime.  Laegnan, the warrior who had exposed himself to Disaran’s stone on the banks of the Bruinen so that a child, Arwen Undómiel, could flee to safety.  And on Mandos’ other side, two stood close together, adult but young, a courting couple that Disaran had lured to their deaths in the woods beyond Imladris.  They had been the first of many.  And there were many, Disaran could see them all now, gathered in the Halls of Waiting, a great crowd large enough to fill a small city.  Hundreds.  Yet he felt no grief from them, not even anger or vengeance from the elves themselves.  No, there was a strange peace in this Hall.  It rankled him to realize he had not taken their immortality; they lingered here now, waiting for him, but their fëa remained free and would live in bliss in Valinor forever.  How he knew it, he could not say; it was not as if he had ever studied elven lore.  But the fëa of his victims watched him placidly, with a hint of idle curiosity of his fate, standing all around Mandos, illuminated by the blinding light of the Vala’s rage. 

     There was something else Disaran suddenly knew, but again he could not say how the knowledge came to him.  It was that Mandos was a Vala seldom moved to any emotion, least of all pity.  All the same, to provoke his wrath to such a state…it seemed this too was quite the dubious honor.

     You have long evaded your due, foul one.  Mortal justice alone cannot atone the crime you have committed.  Disaran had no chance to respond before it seemed that a powerful presence had appeared behind him, dragging him with great force.  He cried out and resisted, but he might as well have been trying to swim in the air.  Darkness rose up, and it seemed that he was flung into a great black room.  There was dust in the air, and the walls and floor were of black stone, with not a single comfort to be seen.

     Staggering to his feet, he coughed and examined himself.  Yes, he was very much alive.  Looking around, he saw a single, somewhat distorted source of light, coming from a window, or a mirror…actually, it seemed to be shaped like the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn.  Walking up to it, Disaran saw the hills and dwellings of Valinor, and the elves, those thrice-damned, accursed elves, living and laughing gaily, as young and infuriatingly hale as ever.  Rejoice, Disaran, you live.  And you shall live, mortal, just as you wished.  But you shall grow old, in the fashion that mortals do.  And you shall weary, and hunger, and thirst, without comfort or ease.  Your fate shall be as the one taken in greed for the One Ring, who knew prolonged life and suffering, but your suffering shall be greater one thousand fold, so great and cruel was your greed.  And you shall see always the Eldar, who were meant by Ilúvatar to be immortal, living by His design.  But you shall not die.  Rejoice, I say, for your wish is granted.

     Disaran surged toward the Stone-window.  “You can’t do this to me!”

     At that same moment, he saw back in Mandos’ Hall, the elf maid he had first slain outside Rivendell, step toward Mandos and kneel.  Speak, Maerien.

     So that was the girl’s name.  Her suitor—what had his name been?  Ah, Lasbelin—was just behind her.  Was she going to appeal for mercy?  Rankling, but still…I beg thee, Lord, let us not return to our kindred with the foul one’s gaze yet upon us, as it was in the last moments of our lives in Middle Earth.  Let him not continue to spy upon our lives with his malicious eyes.  I beg thee, free us from him forever!

     And then the suitor voiced his protest as well, and soon the clamor of the elves was a great chorus about Mandos, all echoing Maerien’s words.  Mandos was silent for a moment, listening to them, while Disaran fumed.  And then…As you wish.

     The Stone-window seemed to slam shut, and Disaran was enveloped completely in a darkness that he knew would never be dispelled.  Farewell, Disaran, and lament not your fate, for your aim is reached.  You shall starve, thirst, and wither with age as a man, but you are granted this immortality you crave.  Your prey is caught, Hunter.

     And then there was silence.  How very loud it was, the wild gasping of his breath, and the pounding of his heart.  And he knew then, standing alone in the shadows and the silence, with the only sounds his breath and his heart, they would never stop.

     They would never stop.

Epilogue:  To the Sea…Coming Soon!

Don’t forget to review!