Disclaimer: The story here is a product of my imagination and is based on the characters and events from the "Lord of the Rings" series by J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit has been made from this effort and all rights to this tale belong to the Tolkien estate. I will make claims to the character of Anaran. As for cuivëar, the disease discussed in this tale, I guess I am forced to relinquish claim to it, as I never really said it was mine alone before. It seems it is starting to crop up in other fanfic stories. Huge surprise and LOL. I think I'm flattered.

A/N: I delve into Elvish in this chapter, which I am afraid is my handicap. If anyone can better my skills at Sindarin (I'm sure there are many of you out there who can), please tell me how to improve on what I've written (lots of gibberish, I'll bet) and I will update it with the next chapter. My apologies to anyone who takes the language seriously. I've tried my best to make this right, though my verb tenses may be wrong in places and my sentence structures are most likely not right. Forgive me.

Part Five: White Light

 A cool hand nestled itself into his, lacing his fingers into the ones now reaching him. It was a small hand, delicate and smooth. It felt gentle, unthreatening, reassuring to him. He allowed himself to lay quietly in this gesture, calm and sedate in the comfort of that sweet entangling. He stayed like that for a long while, uncertain of anything else but the soothing quality that hand claimed and time became meaningless. He knew another person was attached to the fingers, the palm, the wrist, but he did not feel pressured to have their identity revealed to him, and so he continued to lie still for an eternal moment.

A noise broke the reverence of the moment. A soft sigh hung in the air, and it made him ponder where it had originated. And then he remembered the hand, and it seemed to make sense that the two were conjoined. The sound had been somewhat melodic and he assumed its owner to be feminine. Beyond that, he was unsure, for his mind did not seem to want to register anything of attachment. He languished in the opulence of nothing, caressed by a weightlessness that pervaded his spirit. Passively, he laid and dared not move, fearing to do so would be to end the wistful quality of this feeling. His mind cleared again of all thought, and he drifted into a cloud of oblivion.

Something spoke to his mind. A voice, not aloud, more feeling than sound and very clearly female. She was speaking, and he was troubled. He could not understand though he very much wanted to know of what she said. Still he knew to do so meant focusing his thoughts, and of that he did not want to participate. He feared reality. It involved too much pain. So it seemed to him that it was much easier to stay in this place and ignore the voice. He did not want to leave the quiet comfort of his emptiness.

But the presence in his head pursued him and continued her insistent calls, and with regret he found his thoughts becoming clearer. His senses began to sharpen and he realized her words. He felt her say his name.

Legolas.

It was a plea for his attention, a command to do more than to allow himself to apathetically lie still. Slowly, he felt his eyes drift open though he was forbidden true sight. Blinding white light scorched his eyes, and he felt them flutter against the assault to his vision. But the voice called him again and his eyes came open, almost of their own will. The slow appearance of a face greeted him as his eyes slowly began to focus. The whiteness melted into the features adding to the ethereal beauty this figure radiated. He recognized her. Glorious golden hair danced in the light. Exquisitely keen sapphire eyes disguised wisdom beyond comprehension. A soft, grave smile rang true of mysterious intent. Galadriel. And then her face faded away. He blinked to bring it back, for she was magnificent and inspiring to behold, but the whiteness drew into darker forms and a new vision coalesced before him. Slowly it came into focus and he realized again that he recognized the one who sat before him. Arwen.

The edges of his vision were cloudy and faint, and the whole of the world looked like it was draped in gauze. As the sensations of reality returned to him, he felt dredged and heavy, as if the weight of his body was obtrusively daunting. Weakness overwhelmed him and he felt glued to the bed by his inability to move. Breath came to him in shallow swallows, as if each fulfilled only half of his need. The beat of his heart throbbed a tempo in his head, and he could feel the staccato measure pulsate in his temples. His lips were parched and his eyes burned, and he longed to be free of the dull heat that touched his skin and made him feel unkempt. His mind was unsettled, and all his thoughts were unfocused. Still hazy from sleep and fever, he searched his mind for consistency and found none.

His eyes swept the room, past Arwen's figure, for he could not place his reason for being here, and so he stopped at each object to study its part in the mystery before him. He saw dim pre-dawn light falling through a leaded window. The drapes were drawn open and he heard the haunting coos of morning doves from a courtyard beyond. Near the door on the far side of the room, was a square table with a lamp that shone dimly, as if it had been lit for many hours and the well was soon to expire. Scattered on the table was an assortment of bowls, cups and bottles that lay skewed and discarded, as if they had served their purpose and only awaited removal. His eyes moved away to the nearest corner of the room. A small table flanked the bed and on it burned another lamp. A bowl and a pitcher were placed there and the surface was littered with handfuls of small towels. His eyes moved on to the hearth as he continued around the room. He saw the remnants of a fire as glowing embers brimmed the edge of a sooty log and a few small flames licked the blackened remains of a branch beneath it. Before the hearth were two comfortable chairs of rich, worn leather. They was not overly large, but looked the right size for leisurely repose and afternoon conversation. They were turned away from the bed and faced one another. He felt suddenly frightened. The chairs were angled in such a fashion that he could see a partial body within the nearest one. He could not recognize the figure there and his heart beat with fear. Fever made this even more frightening for him, but there was no activity, so he paused now to consider this. Draped from the chair's arm he saw an unmoving hand that looked like a Man's. Though his view was obscured to a full view of the chair, he felt certain a pair of legs stretched out before it. He calmed himself again as he judged from the soft repetitive sound of breathing and the lack of any movement that the resident there was sleeping, He relaxed at least to that. Warily he realized, there were no clues as to how he came to be here, or indeed where here was. There was obvious illness, that was all he knew. The only comfort and certainty he felt was when his eyes came to the object that had launched this tour. He saw her sitting before him, in a chair near the bed, her face staring blankly at the hand within hers. Her posture was straight and her appearance was perfectly composed, yet she seemed out of place here, as if she were a ghost who lingered over a scene. He waited for Arwen to tell him of the mystery of this room, to assure him that all was well, but she only sat with patient veneration. She did not speak and he frowned as he wondered if she even noticed he was there.

He remembered seeing her like this once before, on the parting days before Aragorn's death. She was beautiful to behold but her loveliness was somber, mournful, tragic, and fragile. Her pain was obvious to see, passionate and poignant. Tears were not needed to convey her sorrow. Her misfortune was clearly written in the slightest of her glances.

And yet it tired him and disturbed him, this small walk in his mind through the room, and especially so this silent visit with Arwen, for he felt her pain penetrate him. As much as he would have wanted to free her from her suffering, he could not pull himself away from his own. And the effort of that made him sluggish and tame. He felt poorly, and his mind pulled on him for rest. Despite his anxieties, he felt his eyelids flutter in his struggle to stay awake. His sickness weighed heavy on him and his brow pressed into discomfort. He allowed his eyes to shut again and felt himself lulled back to the softness of white light.

The voice spoke again and he was confused, for he did not know if the utterance came from within or without. He could not bring his eyes to open, though he tried to will them so. He was left with no choice but to listen to the sound of the voice and she spoke to him.

The end draws near. Two paths lie before you now. The choice is yours to make.

Others there are who feel need to see you survive. But you give up. They know what you should do. Why do you not? Open your eyes, Legolas. Take control of your actions. You must fight to survive!

He tried to speak, but like the lethargy that controlled his eyes, he found he could not bring his lips to move. The woman's voice went on.

Your destiny is not here in this tale before you. .Arwen's choice was made in her own mind and she follows the course of her destiny. She follows her own path. You should not follow behind her. Her path is hers alone and her reward will come at the end of it. This is not what portends for you. You must not give in to death, Legolas. Keep your hope alive

His brow furrowed and he fought to say words. He heard a soft voice echo across the caverned ceiling of the room. Vacantly, he realized the voice belonged to him. "Rhaw gwannan. U-bellas gerin daron," he rasped out weakly. (1)

The voice roared in response.

DO NOT GIVE IN! YOU ARE A WARRIOR! YOU MUST FIGHT!

The fierceness of her command caused him to moan aloud as his eyes leaped open. Arwen gasped a breath at his response, and quietly slid to his side. Her face came near his and she gently stroked his cheek. A tender expression filled her eyes and her voice came to him as a whisper, "Guruth cin eruithog. Meleth le tain jase maethar an cin mân. Hepeg tong, mellon. U-carir gweriadh aníre."

His eyes locked on hers. He understood what was being said, but he was uncertain as to how to see it done. He tried to say this, but there was so little of his strength to be found at that moment, so little of the power he needed to survive, and the only words he could muster were, "I will try."

The room grew still. The breathing of the Man grew deeper. He felt the throb in his temples lighten as the blank whiteness crept back over his vision. Nonexistence filled his mind once more though he tried to keep the face of Arwen within his sight. But slowly she faded away from him forever.

****

"I am going to lift you now, Legolas," a deep but gentle voice said.

The Man carefully drew one hand under the Elf's shoulders, and the other under the knees as he scooped up the frail body, aware that every movement in this delicate state might cause pain to the vulnerable being. As it was, a gasp escaped the lips of the weak Elf, and the Man winced in sympathy, his heart leaping at the small torment he was inflicting.

Eldarion looked down at his father's old friend. The transformation he saw there was startling for the beauty that had been Legolas was almost unrecognizable. He felt pity at the sight of this pained, lost soul, but he forced himself to look on him as if nothing had changed. The Elf's face was marred by deep circles that penetrated the skin beneath his eyes. And the radiant skin that had always shown luminous was now ashen and flat. Legolas' golden silk hair that cascaded down his back shone dully and without life. And the Elf's dazzling blue eyes, that had so often gazed on him with a penetration that saw through his soul, were dim, like the last flickers of a candle before it goes out. It broke Eldarion's heart to think of this dying Elf. It reminded him that the world of Elves was fading, and too soon all of them would be gone.

His mother was among those who were diminished, and it pained him all the more now to think of her like this, dwindling until nothing remained of her but the empty shell of her body. He knew she would not stay with him, but would say her farewells and drift away to a place only she knew, and would part with the world in her own way. Witnessing her death he knew would not come to him, but the torment of it remained as he watched her gradually part from him. He was pained in this thought and pushed it away.

At his side marched Gimli, whom he considered his friend, now more so than ever. Eldarion mused on that. Always it seemed that Gimli had been a part of his life and indeed Eldarion had known him from the very start of his memories. He remembered fondly the numerous visits, gifts and tales the elder Dwarf had bestowed upon he and his sisters. But he had also known at the heart of it, Gimli was his father's friend first, and a friend to the family second. He had no jealousy of that. There was a superior age difference involved and he knew quite distinctly there was history between the Dwarf and his father. And also too in the Elf. And though they were loving and affectionate to him, the love in their eyes for his father and mother was guided by that thing he had not lived to see. Still much had happened in the last day to change that. His admiration for this friend of his father had grown as the common traits of their plights had been shared. His friendship with Gimli had grown to deep affection, and he mourned losing it now, for it was something to which he felt he could grow accustomed. Certainly he knew the Dwarf was old, but Gimli did not act the role of an old man. He was fiery and passionate and witty and he knew exactly why his father and Legolas held him so dear. And yet the opportunity to build a friendship beyond what he had was not possible, not now. Gimli, with Legolas, had to part.

He felt saddened almost, as if he were saying goodbye to his best friend. But that was not right. Their friendship was not there yet. And Eldarion recognized his remorse truly lie in the death of his father. Bereft he felt, for he had lost his favorite companion when his father had died, and tears pulled at his eyes as he longed for him back. But he was gone, and Eldarion was faced with the fact that he could not restrain the Dwarf either. It was already plain to see Gimli's agitation. It was time to move on.

Eldarion steeled himself for what lay ahead. He had his duty and the crown to observe. There was still much in the ways of public appearance to consider over the course of the next many days, and after that was the fulfillment of his role as the king. These responsibilities would keep him active and his mind filled with thoughts beyond remorse. He was grateful for his heritage, for it allowed him to fall into his job, and that in itself would help him forget his woes.

"Careful how you lay him," the Dwarf directed as they approached the van and its awaiting litter. "Gently now."

Eldarion carefully lowered the limp figure onto the cot. Without further opportunity to improve on it, it would have to suffice for their journey home. As it was, he had had his staff add extra padding and blankets to lessen the jarring nature of the ride. The instructions to the driver had been clear: be considerate of the cargo, but also make haste. There would be no tarrying on this journey. Legolas slipped quietly into the bed with eyes now focused on something internal. Two servants lifted him to the canvas-covered van and safely secured his place there.

He did not realize Gimli was watching him until he spoke. "You will be a good king," the Dwarf said with admiration.

"Why say you that?" Eldarion chuckled. "You have seen nothing of my abilities as a ruler."

Gimli fully faced him and rested both hands on Eldarion's shoulders. The look on his face was tender, as if speaking to a beloved nephew. His eyes sparkled with admiration. "Oh, but I have," the Dwarf said thoughtfully. "You are compassionate and selfless and kind. Those are the makings of a very fine ruler. It is a gift you inherited from both your parents, I believe. But most especially from your father. You do him proud, Eldarion. I am pleased with the Man you have become, and I know he felt the same."

"I miss him most heartily," Eldarion blurted out in confession, emotion escaping him.

"As do I," said the Dwarf lowly, pausing to think on it, "now more than ever. But feel encouraged, my friend," he said brightening. "I believe his spirit is truly happy, as will your mother's someday be. He resides in Mandos' House now. I am certain he has fulfilled his goals."

The prince's face grew astonished and his eyes grew wider. He did not understand Gimli's source of knowledge, but it gave him comfort to hear the words. "How do you know such a thing has passed?" he asked.

The Dwarf smiled, then he said, "Evidence has been presented to me. The vision I saw proves to me that he accomplished his task. I cannot explain further, it is just something I know. Find comfort in knowing he and your mother will be together forever. It was how they were meant to be." Looking back at the wagon, Gimli said, "We must go now." Then he turned back and said, "Thank you for your kindness, Eldarion. You have been a good friend."

Eldarion nodded, choked for words of response and clasped hands with the Dwarf in a warrior salute. Gimli whipped away and boarded the van, and the carriage pulled away.

The prince waved one last time as the wagon rounded the bend to the first gates. Inside the canopied hold, Eldarion glimpsed Gimli's form, and he saw the Dwarf tenderly watching over his friend, the Elf. The memory of that expression froze in his mind and it would stay with him for days uncounted. And then they were gone from his sight.

****

The rocking motion of the wagon made Gimli's mind drift away from the upset that troubled him. The sound of turning wheels ran against the road in a droning noise. His fixed stare was focused on the corner of the running board as a blur of wilderness passed beyond. He sat quietly, lost in thought and agitation, with one hand in his pocket and the other draped across his companion in a protective gesture. Within the confines of the deep reaches of his jacket, his fingers lingered on an object. Through a habit of touch, though his mind was elsewhere, he played with the ornament he had worn several days before.

The weight of the pendant felt right in his hand. The tear-drop shaped crystal warmed in his palm and its multi-faceted surface gave his fingers area to play as they twirled and touched the perfect symmetry of this gem. Unconsciously he fingered it, letting the chain intertwine in his thick digits, coiling and uncoiling, as his mind restlessly thought on other topics.

As casually as he held it, one would not guess its full worth to him. But truly he held it in his highest esteem. Priceless it was in all value and he cared for it with the reverence of a Silmaril. And almost, it seemed, did it take the aura of one of those fine gems for it nearly cast a glow of all its own make. Some would think it natural, for the object at its heart was as pure as the Valar themselves. Others would stand in wonder at the magical quality of this thing. For the mystery that glowed so brightly within was nothing more than three fine strands of hair. But mortal strands they were not, for the source of these golden threads was none other than the fair Lady of the Woods, Galadriel herself. Witchly powers she was said to have, and none, who looked upon the stone and saw the spectral beauty of so minor a part of her encased in crystal, could deny her authority must be great.

The jewel was beyond lovely though it was just a trifling thing. It had been created under his tireless scrutiny those many years ago. Long had he spent in creating its design. Longer still had he spent seeing it crafted. The construction was quite simple, the threads of hair being the focal point. Three golden tendrils he had been given and he used them in their entirety, braiding them lightly into each other and then spiraling them from the base of the glass tear. A swirling overlapping form of figure eights they were, moving upward and upward through the ever-waning glass prism until the golden fiber emerged from the droplet and continued on as a chain to complete the adornment of the object. Of course, the strand that broke free was truly a chain of the highest construction. Made from an alloy of white gold and mithril that were kept in his personal collection, the precious metal almost matched the radiance of that braid itself. Almost. And nearly as much time went into the make of that chain as went into the gem. Each link was minute, a pinpoint of craft, seen nearly only under the gaze of the jeweler's lens. Precisely each link was crafted until enough were honed to make a chain of arms length. And when that was complete, two more chains just like it were made. When the three were complete, they were tied and braided in the same like as the threads. Nearly as fine as the hairs, the chain merged with the jewel for a seamless connection and all who looked on marveled at the expertise used in rendering it.

But the reason for his adoration of this jewel was not the fibers suspended within it, nor their craft. Beautiful as they were, they were nothing compared to the reality of her. It was the awe and the majesty for which he held her that made this gift so precious to him. Few would understand the grace in which he beheld her, especially among his own people. But he knew that was prejudicial thinking, and any that truly saw her and met her would readily see his point. It was her kindness that moved him to see her real beauty, although that was an obvious trait. She spoke of him lovingly, rejecting the slights her own people would have bestowed upon him, had she not taken his cause. And for that he was grateful, for she opened his eyes to the beauty of her race. She was the one who sparked the friendship between Legolas and he. She was the one who allowed her people to recognize the world through his eyes. She was the one who gave him reason to accept the wisdom of Elves. He could never be the same after standing in her presence.

And now he fingered this precious item as his mind lingered on other items, worry deepest among them. And yet his mind returned to her as he recognized the jewel in his hand. He lifted the crystal from its place in his pocket and held it up to the light. It glittered in the day's sun and he smiled gravely when he saw it, sighing outwardly as he did. Raising the chain over his head, he lowered the string of gold and light and let it fall naturally to his chest.

Clutching the pendant between his hands he whispered, "Galadriel, no more, please. You among all others, deliver us from this unmerciful agony."

The jostle of the wagon nearly sent him off balance and easily knocked him out of his reverie. He glanced at the resting form of Legolas who lay upon a cot and was the cargo in this van. The movement did not wake him, and Gimli was glad. He was more afraid now of what he might find in the Elf in wakeful states than in rest. So much pain this poor Elf had endured, and Gimli was frightened by the sheer weakness of his companion. He feared this ride. He feared its end as well, but for this time, the ride was most terrible. There had already been a bout of pain and he worried that there would be more. He knew he was taking a horrible risk in attempting this passage. It could easily be the thing that pulled his friend over into death.

Gimli began to doubt himself again. Was he right to make this trip? He focused on remembering that instant of contact he felt in his room at the king's palace, for he needed once more to encourage himself to go on with assured confidence. It had been brief, that vision, almost electric, but he knew with most surety that he had seen Galadriel peering at him, as if from the other side of Legolas mind. As if he were a window that she could look through. As if he were a conduit to touch the mind of the Dwarf. He was certain that she spoke to him, telling him to leave ere the time was gone. Telling him to meet her in the garden. And beyond that he was uncertain. He would find his clues upon their arrival. He knew it had happened and this trip was right. But could his friend endure the hardship of this ride?

"If I could give you some of my strength, you know I would. Stay with me, Legolas, please. We will soon be there," he said to the sleeping Elf.

An encouraging thought entered his mind. Almost playful it was, though it occurred there not out of mirth. In his frustration, he had been asking himself what Legolas would do if the tables were turned and if Gimli were the one in a state near death. He would never admit this thought openly to anyone, especially not Legolas, but he had used this technique often in the past when he was left to puzzle out a mystery of Elven actions and responses. It almost always worked, and Gimli ruefully thought here again was evidence that he was taking on qualities of that race. Too much time spent among Elves. But in response to his personal query of what an Elf would do, the answer made him smile, for its simplistic logic made sense in a way. Never had he considered it before, but it seemed appropriate now. He should sing. He was almost embarrassed at the thought, but somehow it felt right, though he was glad there were no witnesses to the folly he would undertake (save the driver who appeared ignorant on all things Dwarven or Elven and would probably think a singing Dwarf was quite normal). Yes, it was something he could do to give strength in a language of healing for an Elf. Small though it was in all that needed mending, it might help a little in what Legolas had undergone that day. All Gimli wanted was to give Legolas the chance to meet the destiny he was promised.

He did not have the tenor beauty of voice that Legolas had, but he had proven in the past that he could hold his own with his throaty baritone sound. He began low and soft, and never rose much beyond that, partly out of his own embarrassment at the attempt, but also to have the music touch the fringes of dream where healing occurred. He allowed the music to reflect his mood, and chuckled to himself despite the seriousness of the gesture. Too much time spent among Elves. I even think like one now. Deep and dark was the song, touched with edges of faith, and in all the music took on a quality of hope. He sang softly in Legolas' ear and he thought he detected a lightening of the Elf's brow in response. Gimli prayed that it would give more reason to fight. Hold on, Legolas, the song was trying to say.

****

The thumbnail-sized red buds of the flower brushed his wrist as a light breeze rustled across the blankets. It was early for such a plant to be blooming yet, or so he thought. He had no gauge of time and it was really quite impossible to know what point of the year he was in, but somehow he felt it was still early. So much had gone on without him. He could have been sleeping for months and that would have felt right as well. It did not matter. All recollection was a blur to him and only snippets of reality were sprinkled among his dreams. And between those, nothing filled the void. White light was all he could remember.

Even now, memory was hard to place. He had struggled briefly with it when his eyes had opened and focused. But he could find nothing to grasp on to, save those dreamlike vignettes. And this small plant. Lotheg Hûin(2) his people called it.

A graceful stem danced with the wind, balancing the petals of the tiny blooms as they bounced on the slender reed. Tiny stamen in the shape of droplets hung from the base of the heart-shaped flowers as fern-like leaves brushed against one another in the gentle tumble of the wind.

He turned his hand over, now palm facing upward. It was the first movement he had made, save to open his eyes, and tiny though it was, it fatigued him. There was so little of him left. The nature of the flower seemed to sense this, and as the wind died down, the cluster of flowers dropped softly into his hand. He closed his fingers down on them and felt the tender branch that held them to the plant break off. Such a small gesture. Their life force was now gone and he had unwittingly suffered them to die, helpless to do anything but watch as they slowly wilted away in the palm of his hand.

His blankets rustled again with the wind and he allowed his mind to wonder about that. Certainly it was not natural to be lying out of doors in a bed such as this. But then again, he sensed his circumstances were far from normal. He felt like he was lying in a cloud that hovered the ground, though he knew he was solidly laying among plantings of wildflowers. He knew without thinking that the white bed in which he rested must be of Elven design. It catered to his whims and buoyed him in softness. So deep and cozy he felt, warm from the numerous layers of thick coverlets thrown over and under his body that no inkling of cold from the wind or the ground could reach him. He sank lusciously into a mattress of down which swallowed his body in its soft embrace. Sweet comfort it was, and he bathed in its warmth and tranquility. Cool air touched his face and his hand, but the rest of his body lay snug in this encasement of fine linen.

It was a gift, this soft bed, and he was grateful to the giver. He pushed his mind now to remember who had done this and the fragments of memory that had taunted him earlier came back to him. Flecked in white light he remembered some of those events.

Strong arms had lifted him and carried him away from his repose. He remembered how small he had felt then in that gesture and pain mingled with the memory though he felt none now. Small bits of conversation filtered through the haze and he recognized now that it had been Eldarion and Gimli who had spoken. His mind puzzled over the memory of their words and he remembered they had said their farewells and given their thanks. He knew that he too had tried to say thank you and farewell, but words had become impossible for him, and he had to regrettably depart without them.

He remembered Anaran's face as he was carried from the van and into the house. He remembered the gentle manner the servant had used as he brought him here, as if he were carrying a delicate object. Such love he felt at the tenderness of that transport. He saw the grieved expression on his servant-friend's face and he forced his eyes to relay his love in return. He thought perhaps Anaran had understood.

Mixed amid was the white light and Gimli's face floating above his. Concern filled those deep-set orbs as he felt the rocking of their van drive them home. The Dwarf had looked distressed but the memory of a song soothed his mind and Gimli's expression had softened in the rendering.

He turned his eyes upward. Stars canopied the sky, and he realized he knew the names for them as well. Seeking out the lights, he eyes spotted Menelvagor(3), the swordsman of the heavens as he climbed upward from the horizon. The cluster of stars was a warrior in the sky, protecting the world from unknown demons and peril and gave all Elves hope for peace under his realm. The defender of the stars held a sword in one hand, and with the other he pointed the way to lost souls, directing them on to Eärendil. It was the star used to lead his people to the Undying Lands. Legolas let his gaze be directed there. Eärendil, the brightest of them all, the guiding light that brought his race home.

Home.

That was why he was here. Home. He had come to Ithilien, to lie in the garden. To find his salvation. To find hope, or to die. To go home. It was a dream to him, but he remembered all the details. A tear slipped from his eye as he recalled what had brought him here, what was expected would happen. This was the end of his journey and perhaps he would die under the stars. If he had a wish on dying, then indeed this is what it would be. And here he was, his wish granted. Yet he did not want to die. Hebeg cin amdir cuin. Keep your hope alive. The words echoed in his mind. He was trying to do just that. But he did not know yet how.

A hand reached out and touched him and he felt relief. He was not alone. He felt comforted in that knowledge. He was frightened. He knew something was coming next but he was uncertain what it would be. He did not want to leave this world. His eyes moved to where the hand touched him and he saw his friend's face. Familiarity made his eyes well and a thousand thoughts ran through his head. Gimli. He did not want to say good-bye. He moved his lips to try to say what his heart felt. But words could not come. He was muted by weakness.

Then came the assault and he felt his back arch with the pain. A raw nerve of agony clenched at his chest and a gasp passed his lips. He could not breathe and he felt his hands ball into fists. A spasm of suffering tore through his limbs, and the last rending rip of his heart seared through his soul. He saw Gimli's face flash before him and he felt confused. He had seen that look before. In the van. As they rode home. He remembered the pain then. The Dwarf's frantic eyes. The dim voice crying to hurry, ride hard. And it all faded out to white light. And now it was before him again. But there was nowhere to ride to now. The damage was done. His heart was torn, but it was for the last time. Slowly the pain receded, and he knew it would not come again. There was nothing else to break. No more pain to inflict. The eyes of his friend faded away.

He could see the sky clearly now. Eärendil was most bright. And he felt his body lighten and lift upward toward it. The star grew in its splendor and it became his whole vision. White light. It filled his eyes and his body and he became a part of it. White light.

On the bed, his body relaxed, no longer constrained by the pain, and the tendons, bone and muscles of his hand fell loose. As his soul began to flee, his fingers fell open and a tightly held flower broke apart, now forgotten. Each delicate blossom had been torn lose from the stem that had once linked it to life. And now all that remained were the soft red petals that lay cupped in the palm of a still hand. A soft wind blew and picked up their light forms, skimming them across the white linens like drops of blood on the sheets.

TBC

Rhaw gwannan. U-bellas gerin daron

Guruth cin eruithog. Meleth le tain jase maethar an cin mân. Hepeg tong, mellon. U-carir gweriadh aníre.

1] I referenced Ardalambion and the Sindarin Dictionary Project for this verbage. See http://www.geocities.com/almacq.geo/sindar and http://www.elvish.org/gwaith/language.htm. Thanks also to Minka for helping me on my rudimentary beginnings into this complex language.

2] Plant lover's special. Bonus points to anyone who can figure out what flower I am using for this metaphor. It is a real live perennial that we see in early-Spring. I've given it a slightly different Elven name, but not so far removed from Westron that you shouldn't be able to figure it out – that is, if you know your plants, and if you can read my Elven gobbldeygook. And even if you can't, the description makes it seem quite apparent to me. The real name reflects on Legolas' illness. I just couldn't resist it as a lovely little symbol. I took a little artistic license though as I'm not sure it blooms as early as March, which is when Aragorn's death is listed as happening and the time around which these events center. Still I suppose it is possible depending on the species and climate zone. Plus, I don't think Tolkien adjusted for the Gregorian calendar, so March may well have been April then. Heck, I'm just taking it!

3] Check out http://www.forodrim.org/daeron/md_astro.html. And then see http://www.astro.wisc.edu/~dolan/constellations/java/Orion.html. That one was really fun – you get to move around in the sky with the constellations!

Favorite story alerts: I've found a couple Legolas stories that have me waiting impatiently for updates. Try "Dark Leaf" from JastaElf (but you'll need to read "Leaf and Branch" the prequel to understand it fully). It is a deeply disturbing story and night vs. day to its prequel, but very rich, and wonderfully crafted around details and characters. I am also adoring a wonderful Pippin/Legolas fic called "Friendship Begins" by Mea. It has trolls, is amusing, but also delves into its characters and details well. I'll say no more, just find them and read! You won't regret it. – Your death would be a waste. Those who love you champion for your soul. Hold tight, friend. Do not betray your desires. – My body fails. I have no strength remaining..