A/N: Trigger Warning: themes around death and dying. Lots of angst in this chapter, I hope. Please forgive my possible butchering of the Sindarin in this chapter. I did quite a bit of research into word conjugations, but in the end, it's a lot of educated guesswork.

Chapter Sixteen

A low murmur of voices roused Sam out of a fitful sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he propped himself up on one arm and squinted bleary-eyed over toward the sound. Across the fire, he could see a gray-clad newcomer deep in conversation with Rumíl and Haldir. The elf's hands moved emphatically as he spoke, his angry tone carrying easily across their small camp.

How unusual. Sam had encountered many elven emotions since leaving the Shire—serenity, indifference, disdain, resolve…but not anger. There was no way he was going to be left out of this conversation. Sitting up the rest of the way, he threw aside his blanket and got to his feet. Stifling a yawn, he crept around the fire to where Boromir, who was still awake, was observing the nearby discussion. The hobbit had just opened his mouth to ask the man what was going on when movement came from his right. Sam scooted closer to the man as Frodo joined them. Of their small company, only Pippin remained asleep—fighting a cold since his near drowning the day before.

Last night, wolves had howled and messengers had come and gone all night, and the youngest hobbit had sat especially white knuckled, refusing to sleep, despite the toll his adventure in the river had taken. Sam's own hand still smarted from Gollum's bite, but it was more of a scratch compared with the healing gash on his forehead. At midday, supplies and food had been brought, and Sam had been pleased to be given the distraction of cooking, as, with no outlet for his worries, he'd taken to pacing of late. News had come along with the supplies, though it had been a great deal too vague for Sam's liking. All they knew was that the enemy had been repelled, and that no one had been seriously hurt. Sam suspected a good deal more had been said and was quite aggravated at being kept in the dark, as had Boromir been.

The elves addressed the man in Sindarin, but amongst themselves, they conversed only in their strange dialect. The hobbits had held their peace, but the man had seemed genuinely affronted. Sam supposed he was entitled to be—he was basically a prince of his own people. Oher than an obviously inflated sense of elven superiority, he'd seen no reason for distrust their hosts as Boromir did. He suspected it would go a long way with the Gondorian if the elves would stop conversing amongst themselves in dialects the man couldn't understand.

"What are they saying, Boromir?" Frodo inquired softly of the man, who, they had discovered, was almost as fluent in the gray tongue as Strider. He needn't have bothered with lowering his voice. All the elves turned at the sound, as though suddenly realizing they had an audience.

Boromir scowled at them. "I wouldn't know, as they quite rudely insist on speaking a language unknown to me."

Haldir had the good grace to look abashed and moved closer to them. "The others are very near. The ellon, Ain, has come to fetch help and any supplies or medicines that have been sent." The elf trailed off, and Sam thought he looked more than a little guilty.

"None have come, have they, Haldir?" Frodo asked, learning around Sam and fixing his eyes on the elf's face. This seemed to unnerve the elf, whose reply seemed reluctant.

"No, they haven't."

The man scowled darkly into the fire, but Sam's eyebrows rose in surprise, pressing against the healing cut on his forehead, as he gave voice to his dismay. "Garlic and potatoes and that was it?"

"I cannot explain it—we have requested such items several times, and now…"

"Now, what?" Frodo demanded.

"Ain reports that the situation is dire."

Sam's heart leapt into his throat, and he felt Frodo flinch beside him.

"Perhaps you might elaborate," Boromir asked, his voice cold, and the hobbit felt a surge of gratitude for the man's perception.

"Beyond the initial supplies and reinforcements, there has been no word from Caras Galadhon," Haldir explained emphatically, a hint of pleading in his voice, "despite our many messages."

"Not that part," Sam found himself growling. He could see the guilt and uncertainty radiating from them, and it felt wrong and off-putting, but he'd long lost his awe of the elves.

"Thranduillion… Ain does not think he will live to see the sun rise." The elf's face paled at his own words.

Rumíl cut in, saying something to Boromir in rapid Sindarin.

"They say they can hear the others from here," the man translated before either Sam or Frodo could make the request, "They certainly didn't seem surprised when this one swung down from the treetops."

"Well then," Frodo proclaimed with a nod of decision. Sam knew that expression, and saw at once what his master meant to do. When a Baggins decided to do something, no force in all of Arda could stop him. And this time, the gardener approved.

Frodo crossed back over to where their youngest companion slept and gently patted his shoulder.

Pippin snapped to full alertness in an instant—the result of days and weeks spent on edge. "What's happened?" His worry made him sound achingly young to Sam's ears.

"Hush now, I'll explain on the way. Up you get, Pippin." Frodo glanced toward him, and Sam sprang into action, throwing his pack back together and quickly evaluating which of their unpacked items could be left behind.

"It is time we rejoined our companions, so we'll be going now, as there is no time to waste-if you would be so kind as to point the way." Frodo announced, gesturing northward with a sweep of his arm, and clearing up the confusion he'd caused the elves. Sam was strongly reminded of Mr. Bilbo—mad gleam and all.

"Right," Sam said, clearing this throat awkwardly and shouldering his pack. It felt strange to make this decision on their own after deferring to others for so long, but it was made now, and Sam felt in his bones that it was the right action to take—though even if he'd doubted it, he would have stood behind Frodo regardless. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a bemused twinkled in the Gondorian's eye as he came to stand behind the hobbits.

"I shall escort you," Haldir offered in the face of this solidarity, a slight stammer of surprise in his tone. Clearly he was unfamiliar with hobbity obstinance.

"That would be helpful, thank you." Frodo replied graciously, as if it had been Haldir's idea in the first place.

And so, they found themselves sprinting along behind Haldir, who did not slow his pace. Sam wasn't certain where the other elves had gone, though the treetops ahead of them seemed to sway suspiciously now and again. He glanced over frequently at Frodo, who was a bit white-faced. Sam thought it entirely too soon for him to be exerting his bruised ribs, even after the day of rest, but the situation could not be helped. Boromir's frown was deep and forbidding, but as it was his expression of choice, Sam wasn't certain if he was ambivalent about being forced to follow Haldir once again, or deeply disgruntled.

As they went on, the smell of their campfire ebbed as they left their own camp behind, but as they continued over a steep incline, the smell of wood smoke began to grow stronger once more. They didn't have to go much farther before a makeshift camp came into view. At first glance, it seemed cozy. The glow of a fire could be seen through the trees, whose golden leaves glinted in its light. Figures were huddled in different groups around it, at a distance expected for a cool night.

"Elbereth!" Haldir breathed suddenly, speeding up even more so that Sam and his companions found themselves sprinting to keep up. This time, Sam did not take umbrage at being left behind.

Sam stumbled to a halt beside Boromir, who had stopped at the edge of the camp and was taking in the sight with alarm. The gardener peered around the man. Pippin and Frodo had already begun to cross over to the other two, the former giving a little sob of relief as he caught sight of his dearest companion. It was immediately obvious that the situation was every bit as dire as they'd been told. No one sang, or whittled sticks, as Sam had observed of the elves these many months. There was no hum of conversation, nor the clank of dishes, or bubbling of a pot as someone prepared dinner.

At first, Sam heard only silence, but he gradually became aware of another sound. Sam's knees almost buckled when he realized what it was—the raspy sound of someone struggling to breathe. It was quiet, and deafening now that he had identified it.

The moment was so filled with wrongness that Sam found himself stepping backward, as if to run away. But his eyes at last found Gimli, and then Merry. He was greatly alarmed by the state of them—bedraggled and feverish, jaws clenched against pain. Both were white faced, yet no one was tending to them—or anything really. Sam took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other, catching up to Frodo and Pippin and refusing to look anywhere else.

Merry's gaze was so determinedly fixed to a spot across from them that he barely acknowledged their arrival. He started a bit as Pippin plopped down beside him, greeting him wordlessly with a gentle bump to his shoulder. Low voices reached his ears from across the fire, but he ignored them as he listened to Frodo and Merry, who had winced, but returned his cousin's greeting, at last breaking his gaze to look down at Pippin in concern, his eyes raking over the youngest hobbit before looking questioningly at Mr. Frodo.

"He'll be okay. I suspect he mostly needed to know you are whole and hale."

Merry nodded.

"And are you?" Frodo prodded in a way only he could. When no reply was given, he continued pointedly, "Whole and hale?"

"Hale enough," Merry said, holding his cousin's piercing gaze for a beat before returning his gaze across the camp. So it was, on the evening of the first day, the Company was reunited at last in the Naith of Lórien. What might have been a joyous reunion was tainted by a sight at which Sam couldn't yet bring himself to look.

A familiar elf, who wore a healing gash on his forehead that matched Sam's own, conversed familiarly with Haldir, who had a hand clasped on his shoulder and was peering at the injury intently. In that moment, Sam realized that they had not been the only ones who had been worried.

Sam looked just a bit farther and found Strider speaking with Ain. He was sure Legolas lay behind him, but their position blocked his view. He wasn't sure if the other elf had just arrived, or if he'd already been there and Sam had failed to notice. The low conversation across the fire grew loud enough to arrest the others' attention as the ranger looked up from speaking with the ellon and questioned Haldir sharply. Even Sam understood the negative answer. Strider squared his jaw in anger and fisted his hands, but the moment passed from one blink to the next and the man seemed almost diminished, so cowed by grief and defeat that Sam could hardly recognize him as he returned to Legolas' side, giving the others no greeting at all-not that Sam expected one.

"I don't understand," Merry murmured from his place between hobbit and dwarf. Barely a foot from him, a marchwarden slumped against a pile of packs, his left upper leg swathed in bandages that had already bled through. It looked dire, but no one was paying him any mind, and he was still stubbornly sitting upright, though his face was flushed and his eyes over bright. Sam knew a fever when he saw one.

"That's Tûron," the Brandybuck said quietly when he noticed that Sam had begun to look around. "He went toe to toe with a warg a lived to tell the tale." The hobbit's quiet admiration was obvious even in his somber mood.

"The one with the gash like yours is Orophin," Merry continued, and Sam realized suddenly that he and Frodo had met the elf in question two nights before. "He's Haldir and Rumíl's brother—and the one next to Legolas" –here his voice cracked and he was forced to clear his throat to continue—"is Foendil."

At last, Sam forced himself to follow Merry's gaze from Foendil to their friend, bracing himself for the sight that would greet him. Though he had been able to hear Legolas from the moment they'd reached the camp, that hadn't been enough to prepare him. The gardener was horrified by what he saw, and was suddenly very glad he had already sat down.

A gasp escaped him as Sam took in skin so gray it wasn't even flushed by the fever the elf very surely had. Sam could remember the arrow in the elf's flesh, days ago when the elf had been healthy and full of life, but now a great white bandage was wrapped around his torso below his heaving chest. The rest of him was unnaturally still. Sam supposed in the Shire they really had been sheltered from all the horror and ugliness in the world because the sight before him made him feel very ill and unprepared, indeed.

The night deepened as they sat around the fire in silence. The only sounds to be heard were Legolas' struggling breaths. In that moment, Sam was sure that Haldir had not spoken any untruths—the elf would not live to see the sunrise.

The ill and injured struggled to remain awake and would often doze while the others waited for medicine that did not come. Meal preparations and chores were ignored, save when the fire burned so low it risked going out, then someone would reluctantly add more fuel. Though Sam had heard many stomachs rumble, no one made any move to prepare a meal. They were all paralyzed, afraid to look away lest they be doing something trivial while their friend breathed his last. Sam had never been to a wake, but he thought if he had, it would have been like this.

Often, there came a long silence, and during the pause, Sam himself wouldn't be able to breathe, anticipating that the next breath wouldn't come and that Legolas would slip away, but then a gasp or wheeze would come and the elf's chest would rise falteringly, and Sam, too, would breathe again. Legolas lay dying before their eyes—it was only a matter of when he would finally let go, and each silence was longer than the last.

"Sam," Merry whispered, suddenly straightening, breaking the heavy silence in a way that almost seemed deeply wrong. He groaned a bit as he shifted around to look at the gardener. "Do you still have it?"

"Have what?" Sam didn't follow and felt embarrassed at the scene they were causing. Surely Merry knew that now was hardly the time to talk, that it could wait until later.

"That plant you kept driving us crazy stopping to collect all around Rivendell," Merry answered in a harsh whisper that felt entirely too loud.

"The one Strider uses and calls that funny name," Pippin chimed in tiredly, lifting his head from Merry's shoulder.

Sam's mouth fell open and his irritation fled. He had forgotten all about it. It seemed a lifetime ago since he'd dried his foragings and packed them careful away. "I think so—I'd forgotten all about them-I haven't taken them out, but they could be ruined by now."

"Dear, Sam," Frodo murmured, his eyes both bright with gratitude and shadowed by the haunting memories.

"Lord Elrond told us that Mordor is a waste land," he found himself explaining to a perplexed dwarf and confused man, who had leaned over to join the conversation as Sam began fumbling with the buckles on his back. "Those creatures who serve Sauron—well, maybe they might be there, too, serving 'im."

At this, Frodo sucked in a sharp breath, his hand coming up to touch the mostly healed wound at his shoulder, and Sam felt sorry to have reminded him. He shuddered violently at the memory of the terrible calls of the Ringwraiths and had to clench and unclench his hands several times to stop their trembling before he could resume his search.

He took a deep breath and plunged on. "Anyway, the kingsfoil helped Mr. Frodo through those dark days, so I thought to make sure we kept some on hand for later—just in case."

Gimli started to say something and Sam looked up to see the dwarf, with an expression of both horror and disbelief, looking from Frodo, to Sam, and then back. After a moment he found his voice. "Do you mean to imply that…?"

"Lord Elrond and Gandalf only told us you were injured on your journey," Boromir murmured, something like awe in his voice.

Frodo flinched and lowered his hand, suddenly aware of the curious attention coming his way. "Though the wounds are not the same, I have been where he is at," he finally offered quietly, gazing over at their dying friend. "It was a very close thing."

A heavy silence lengthened before Sam found himself continuing hastily on, glazing over the details, "Anyway, it was dead useful at the time, and I thought perhaps I ought to bring it with us—to be prepared, and all. But if Mr. Legolas needs it now, there's no point in saving it for a rainy day."

Determined to find it, Sam began emptying his pack. Surely it was still there. Sam was a gardener, and he knew his trade well. He was sure the quality had been preserved, if only the conditions they had met these last weeks had not ruined or lost them, but the items toward the bottom of his pack seemed to have remained mostly dry. At last, his fingers brushed against the cloth sachet inside which he'd stored his foragings. He drew the strings open and breathed in deeply, relief stealing over him as the sweet, pungent aroma rose up to greet him.

His eyes met Strider's across the fire, but instead of offering direction, the man looked away. Sam frowned. He was reasonably certain the man had heard their conversation.

The gardener looked over at Merry in bewilderment, perplexed at the ranger's reaction. Just when he was about to ask, and with no little indignation, what was going on, Strider finally spoke, though he still made no move to get up take the sachet of dried leaves. "He is too far gone."

"But you used some in the dell! It did help," Merry cried.

"Athelas is no cure for poison, Merry, nor for blood loss."

"You used it for Mr. Frodo after Weathertop, and by all rights it should have been too late for him, too! Please, sir, won't you at least try?" Sam pleaded.

"I don't see how it could hurt," Frodo spoke up, his eyes fixed on something far away. "It was…a comfort…during those dark days, and I think it would be a comfort now."

Merry gave him a nudge and Sam crossed reluctantly over to Strider. Now that he was so close, the elf's misery was even louder in his ears.

With a sigh, Strider relented, reaching out his hand and gently closing Sam's fingers around the herbs. His voice was gravelly when he spoke, "These aren't like the fresh leaves we found at Amon Sûl. You'll need to steep them-like a tea. Have you a pot?"

Did he have a pot? Had the situation not been so dire, Sam might have mustered up a smirk. Nodding to himself, Sam crossed purposefully back over to his pack.

In no time at all, a scent like an orchard in blossom began to permeate the camp, and the dark hopelessness began to loosen its grip on all their company. Sam had observed the properties of the plant only a few days before when he and Frodo had been feeling so wretched and Strider had used the remaining leaves from his pouch. They'd instantly felt almost completely better. But despite the soothing aroma, he didn't note a similar change in the sleeping elf's face, though he himself felt calmer, as if a peaceful breeze had swept through his mind and soothed the storm that had been raging there.

Wedged now between Frodo and Pippin, Sam could see Merry struggling to keep his vigil as the sweet smell lulled him to sleep. A few feet to their left, the injured marchwarden—Tûron, Sam reminded himself-too, seemed to relax, his head lolling against the stack of packs propping him upright. Through it all, Gimli remained a stone statue, his bandaged hand held close and his eyes fixed on Legolas, as if he wanted to go and sit beside him, but no one could fail to see the frowns in the dwarf's direction from the galadhrim Merry had not named. Their glares turned on the dwarf each time he so much as shifted. Sam wondered, and not for the first time, what had transpired between the two races since they'd left dwarf and elf in the dell. There was a story there, Sam was certain, but right now wasn't the time to ask, and he suspected his curiosity would not be satisfied for a long while.

Legolas lay completely still now. Maybe he was resting easier, or maybe he no longer had the energy to toss and turn, or even to moan. His raspy breathing remained unchanged. As the water cooled, Sam soaked clean cloths. One, he passed to Orophin, who unbandaged Tûron's wound and began to clean it with the athelas water. Sam paled at the sight of the gigantic teeth marks and a specter of a warg appeared in his mind's eye as he quickly passed a second cloth over to Foendil. It had been reported that the company had met wargs, but no injuries had been mentioned. The sight of such a wound made the danger the others had been in feel much more real. He found himself studying his newly reunited companions more closely—Merry had certainly been completely well when he and Strider set out two morning before, and Sam couldn't say that still remained true.

Sam watched intently as Foendil began to wipe Legolas' neck and shoulders. Nothing. There was not even the slightest sign of improvement. The elf's lips remained blue, and the rise and fall of his chest continued to falter. Sam's face crumpled in bitter disappointment. Strider was right—there was no hope. The ranger, also, observed the same, and sat back, staring away into the darkened woods.

"Te wânnol*" Foendil sighed out as he was passed a fresh compress and a steaming cup of the brew.

"Iston*," Strider answered softly, his eyes returning to Legolas' face. Aragorn sat, stone-faced, his hand firmly wrapped around the elf's wrist, as Foendil wrung out the cloth and dipped it again into the kingsfoil infused water. The other elf was watching him closely, but Strider's own gaze remained locked on his friend. Even in the firelight Sam could see the man's drawn and pale expression, and reddened eyes. The man looked haggard…and lost. Sam's throat tightened and his vision blurred. He determinedly swallowed several times until he'd regained control of his emotions.

All was quiet, save the sounds of the crackling campfire, and Legolas' heaving breaths. Sam could easily see the space under and between each rib as the elf struggled to suck air into his lungs. His lips were blue and his face looked clammy and pale. He seemed much diminished…smaller, as if the light and cheer and vigor that he'd been bursting with had deserted him.

A person didn't have to understand elvish to know that things were very, very not good. It seemed very wrong to do nothing but watch the elf's spirit slip away from one moment to the next. To watch an immortal being die—it felt inconceivable, yet what more would be done? Sam felt completely unprepared for what would soon come-he was a stranger to death beds. All his own relations were old and hardy, and very few truly tragic things happened in the Shire. The heaviness of their vigil was almost more than he could bear.

Some minutes later, Aragorn released the wrist with a cry and placed the hand on Legolas' chest instead, while Foendil pressed his fingers to the pulse point at the elf's neck. By now, Sam's tears had been falling freely, and he was not the only one weeping. He could hear the ranger conferring in elvish with his companion—he somehow sounded both anxious and resigned. These sounds were followed by the echo of Boromir's words as he explained quietly that their friend's heart was weakening.

Sam couldn't bear to watch, but couldn't bring himself to turn away, either. Some light rustling reached his ears, and he looked up in surprise as Merry rose painfully to his feet and crossed over to Legolas' side. Sam thought he meant to say goodbye, or pay his last respects, but his eyebrows rose as the hobbit instead reached for the cup of athelas water and rewet the compress before squaring his jaw and holding it out to the ranger. Strider made no move to take it. It was clear the man knew Merry was there, but he didn't even look up. What Merry was up to, Sam couldn't be certain, but he could see from his expression that he was determined to get his way.

The hobbit did not withdraw his hand, and his low, determined voice could be clearly heard. "You took care of Frodo, even when by all rights it should have been hopeless, and he was all but a stranger to you. Yet, at the end, you have given in to despair." His words were almost a whisper as he held the cloth higher, "He still lives, Strider. He. Still. Lives."

Finally, finally, the man looked up at Merry, his eyes bloodshot and shining, his cheeks wet with tears. Sam felt he should look away from the private moment of grief and misery, but he found he could not. The man's fingers shook as they closed around the offered cloth, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. He had no words of censure for the hobbit, and merely gave an exhausted nod. He would do as Merry asked.

"Estel." Foendil bit out with a sharp sort of urgency. The man's attention immediately snapped to Legolas. Sam followed Strider's gaze. His stomach lurched as he realized the silence had lengthened. He began to hear gasps of anguish and whispered pleas as the others realized it, too. Sam leaned in and held his breath, but Legolas never moved. He remained as still as one of Mr. Bilbo's trolls, despite Strider slapping his cheek and jostling his shoulder. Sam's ears began to roar as knowledge grew cold in his heart. He was certain the man was pleading in frantic elvish, but he could hear nothing.

The moment seemed to stretch on, holding them all in its grip, and then Foendil removed his fingers from Legolas' neck and gave a short shake of his head before leaning back and staring silently into the trees. Sam's throat tightened and the fire grew blurry as his own tears began to fall. Returning to his place beside his cousins, Merry wept silently, his shoulders heaving up and down. Even Gimli made no effort to hide the tears wetting his beard.

From across the camp came a low melody. Sam couldn't understand the words, but it was beautiful and haunting and made him feel as though his heart had been ripped from his chest. A lament that rose with the sun—worthy, he thought, of the only son of a great elven king…and he was sure it would torment him forever. Maybe he imagined it, but it seemed even the trees mourned, their branches drooping low to the ground as if they, too, wept.

Strider had bowed his head, and was grasping the slack hand in both of his and holding it tightly to his chest, against his heart, squeezing so hard that Sam could see the water from the compress running down the back of the elf's arm. The man hadn't even had the presence of mind to set it aside. Sam could hear snippets of his pleas, and this time there was no need for a translation. At first the man's words were forceful and angry, but gradually they faded into a soft, desolate whisper, until at last Sam could make out, "Novaer, gwador nîn. Ro-thand mellon.*"

With that, the man gently placed the elf's limp wrist upon his still chest and stared at it in disbelief. In the next moment, a great guttural wail rose up-wrenched out of the man. Sam thought it was more terrible than any sound he'd ever heard. The man's whole body seemed to be shake.

Sam could bear to watch no longer. It was all too much. Without warning, his chest tightened and he found he could only manage shallow breaths. His vision blurred, and suddenly he wasn't sure if he was holding Merry up, or if Merry was holding him up. All the grief he'd pushed away after the horrors of Weathertop, and Moria, and Gandalf's fall burst through, able to be held back no longer.

The miserable minutes passed on by—full of defeat, doubt, and uncertainty. This all ended with an abrupt shout of hope-filled excitement that cut through the camp, leaving Sam reeling. The words that followed the shout were spoken so quickly the only word Sam could make out was "Estel." Everyone present looked up as one, the hobbits in confusion, the others in hope.

"Legolas…?" The ranger's response was almost feeble, his shaky hand returning to the elf's chest. Sam didn't dare hope-Legolas certainly didn't look any different to him. He still saw only the mask of death, and his stomach clenched that they should be given such false hope, but after a moment, the chest rose enough that even Sam's eyes could see it—and rose again. A moment more, and the hobbit could once again hear raspy breathing.

"Te athelas!*" Came an elvish tone of wonder. Haldir was looking at Strider with a respect Sam had not to this point observed. For his part, Strider looked at the cloth in his hand, and then at Merry, and then back at Legolas in utter amazement.

"Penin cheniad*," Aragorn muttered in a tone of such bewilderment that Sam actually understood his words. "I thought that saying was just nonsense," the man was muttering in Westron.

Sam's brow furrowed. The athelas hadn't seemed to help in the slightest earlier.

"I moe e daur nestar.*" Someone proclaimed solemnly, as if that were supposed to explain everything, which of course, it didn't for Sam because he understood not a word. In his confusion, however, he caught Boromir's face. Gone was the guarded, impatient mien. The man was looking at the ranger with something like wonder.

"Heb meno, Estel!" Foendil urged in Sindarin, "Te û ed ragh dhan, ach dhîn faer dananna.*"

"What's he saying," Pippin hissed impatiently, and though Sam wished someone would answer, no one did. His knees were shaking with the strange rush of relief, hope, and terror, though the mood of the camp was beginning to lighten. Sam wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but Merry wore a curiously satisfied expression, and Frodo seemed to be listening very intently to all that was being spoken.

Strider dipped the cloth in the cooling pot and wrung it out again, before wiping Legolas' brow, and then his arms, and then his neck. The man continued talking to his charge-a low and constant stream of soothing elvish until the kingsfoil infused water was gone and Legolas' breathing had eased. The elf's color had markedly improved when Aragorn at last got to his feel. For all that Legolas' color had returned, the man's own face had become alarmingly gray.

In the midst of all this distraction, Pippin whispered reverently, "Look!"

Sam followed his gaze. Legolas' blue eyes had opened into slits.

Te wânnol=He is fading.

Iston=I know.

Novaer, gwador nîn. Ro-thand mellon=Farewell, my brother (sworn). Truest friend.

Te athelas=It's the athelas.

Penin cheniad=I don't understand.

I moe e daur nestar=The king's hands are healer's hands.

Heb meno, Estel! Te û ed ragh dhan, ach dhîn faer dananna.= Keep going, Estel! He's not out of danger yet, but his spirit is returning.