Elven Song 
Jocelyn 
 jdog985@hotmail.com
 
PG-13 - Drama/Angst 
A/N: Wow, this one came out of the blue. It began as a minor plot bunny inspired 
by Thundera Tiger’s latest masterpiece (Plug: Check out “Reflections in the 
Dark!”) that evolved into a team of wild plot horses that refused to leave me 
alone until I started writing. 

This story contains a few references to a previous story “A Little Nudge Out of 
the Door,” but that fic is not required reading. This tale has a life all its 
own. It is somewhat AU, but I’ve kept an eye on the LOTR timeline in order to 
make it as realistic as possible. Please review and let me know what you think.

NOT INCLUDED IN THIS FIC: romance (other than what Tolkien wrote), slash, or 
Mary-Sueness. 

Disclaimer: The only character in this fic that belongs to me is Disaran. All 
the rest are the property of the Great Tolkien himself, and though I love them, 
I should not presume to claim them. (Grovels in homage to the Professor)

ELVEN SONG

Setting: Minas Tirith, mid-November 3020 (SR 1420) to January 3021, including 
various flashbacks to the Second Age

**Note: Frodo resigns the office of mayor on mid-year’s day 3020, and departs 
Middle-Earth in September of 3021.**

Summary: A slightly AU tale. While the Fellowship and other heroes of the War of 
the Ring reunite in Minas Tirith, a man who has discovered the secret of 
stealing the lives of elves to prolong his own comes to Gondor searching for new 
prey. 

WARNING: I swore I would never do this but…Character death!

REVISION NOTES: The additions to this and other chapters are in response for 
reader requests for more background on the Black Hunter and his weapon. I hope 
it’s an improvement, and please let me know what you think!

Prologue: The Black Hunter

Númenor, the year 3262 of the Second Age…

The High King of Númenor regarded his chattel with carefully-disguised triumph. 
There was no power in Númenor or Middle-Earth that could touch him, Ar-Pharazôn 
the Golden, now that he had attained this victory. With this great land, Elenna 
the Star of Eärendil, firmly under his control, and now the greatest power in 
Middle-Earth bowing so humbly before him, his power was unquestionable. Still, 
one had to keep up some semblance of humility. “You surrendered to my forces 
easily,” he observed, watching his captive carefully.

Without raising his bowed head, Sauron murmured, “I saw no call to destroy 
myself needlessly, my lord. For to struggle against the might of Númenor and the 
descendants of Elros would be the height of folly.”

Though the King of Númenor agreed, he did not think to be blinded by flattering 
words. It was true, the fair Sauron was reputed to possess great wisdom--thus 
surely a wise man would do just as he had done--and yet…one who had sought to 
rule all Middle Earth and claim the title of King of Men should possess more 
pride. *Therefore, I would safely conclude that he seeks to curry a favorable 
alliance to himself at best, or to spy and seek out an opportunity for treachery 
at worst. He shall find neither.*

Aloud, he replied, “Your prostrations have been humble indeed, failed Lord of 
Middle Earth.” He smiled at the slight stiffening of the prisoner’s shoulders. 
He had meant the remark to offend. *I shall not be unguarded before one who 
declared his purpose to usurp my place as King of Men and to drive my realm into 
the sea.*

Nonchalantly, he turned to his waiting guards. “Take the prisoner to the 
dungeons.”

Sauron’s eyes widened in protest as the men moved to drag him away. “My lord!” 
he cried. “Have I not done all that you demanded? I struck not a blow against 
your forces, returned to Númenor as your most humble servant and pledged my 
fealty! How do you now punish me for it?!”

Ar-Pharazôn laughed aloud. “O fair and supposedly wise Lord of Barad-dur, surely 
you do not presume to think me a fool! Indeed, you have capitulated most 
graciously to my rule and pledged to serve me. Many sweet words you have given 
me, Sauron, sweet words indeed. But I think I shall consider carefully before 
welcoming you into my confidences on the weight of sweet words alone.”

“My lord,” Sauron pulled away from the guards and knelt even lower, the very 
image of a wronged and desperate innocent, pleading for justice. “I do entreat 
you to have my prove my intent and worth. Say only where you would have me 
demonstrate my loyalty. It shall be done, and I shall prove myself your willing 
servant. Cast me not off!”

Smiling openly, the King of Númenor beckoned the guards take the prisoner’s arms 
again. “Oh, I shall have proof of your loyalty, Sauron, mistake me not. I shall 
find tasks for you to properly prove your words. But for now, I shall leave you 
alone in the hospitality of my dungeons, where you can consider carefully should 
your words prove less than sincere.”

Desolately, Sauron bowed again. “As you will, my lord. But in time, I shall 
prove my worth to you and reward your mercies to me.”

With a chuckle, Ar-Pharazôn motioned him to be led away. “Then I shall expect 
great rewards indeed,” he said, turning his back.

From behind him, he heard Sauron reply, “You shall have them, my lord. Far 
exceeding your expectations.”

***

Minas Tirith, November of the year 3020 of the Third Age…

Great cheering throngs lined the streets of Minas Tirith as the legendary 
figures rode through its gates toward the Halls of the Kings. The soldiers of 
Gondor stood to keep the crowds back in their excitement, and saluted with great 
reverence as the procession passed by. Women strewed flowers in its path. The 
heroes smiled and bowed graciously to the mass, indulging those who had spent 
the past year singing songs of their legend.

One of the company, riding in the fine open wagon, looked at his closest 
companion, trying in vain to hide his blushing cheeks, “Ever think they’ve 
exaggerated our greatness just a bit, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo shrugged at Sam, and then was forced to duck yet another barrage of autumn 
blossoms, “Obviously they don’t think so. I don’t see any of them looking 
disappointed.”

Two knights of Rohan and Gondor rode on either side of the wagon on their 
ponies, waving cheerfully at the crowd. “Why should they be?” demanded Pippin. 
“The legendary Ring-bearers are returned to Gondor, and Peregrin the Great and 
Meriadoc the Magnificent! Who wouldn’t be struck with dumb with awe!”

Laughing at that, for they had been forced to shout over the din of the cheers, 
Sam replied, “Whatever they’re struck with, it is not dumbness, Mister Knight!”

Frodo laughed in turn, and waved back at a small clutch of young girls with a 
little less discomfort. He glanced around the wagon at the rest of the 
procession. What a sight it was; all these people together once again, only this 
time without war. Gandalf, riding Shadowfax as always, led the way through the 
streets, turning now and then as if to check up on Frodo and Sam. The sons of 
Elrond rode with a small company of Rangers just behind, and near to Merry on a 
gray steed rode Eowyn, Lady of Ithilien, followed closely by her brother, King 
Eomer of Rohan. The two had scarcely seen each other since the War of the Ring, 
and they too were engaged in happy conversation and reminiscence as the company 
moved through the streets.

“Aren’t you glad we came now, Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam.

Frodo smiled. “Very glad, Sam. I did not realize how much I was missing 
everyone. I shall be happy to see Ara--that is, King Elessar again.”

“Aye, and I wager Strider will be happy to see you,” Sam replied.

They heard laughter nearby, and turned as King Eomer pulled his horse up next to 
them. “You win the wager, Master Samwise. For all that he is revered here in the 
Reunified Kingdom, Aragorn said nothing shall ever please him more than to 
always be Strider to you and the other hobbits.”

The hobbits grinned at each other as the procession rounded a final bend, and 
Sam pointed excitedly. “Look there, lads! We’ve come to the Halls of the Kings!”

“And there upon the steps! It’s Strider himself waiting for us! What a fine 
meeting this shall be!” cried Merry.

Upon the steps leading up to the White Halls of the Kings, there was indeed a 
great party waiting to greet the four members of the Fellowship, and their 
equally-illustrious companions. There stood Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, Steward 
of Gondor, slightly to the right upon the steps. He smiled and nodded to the 
hobbits, his eyes straying happily to his wife, the Lady Eowyn, who had come 
from their home in Emyn Arnen to take part in this grand celebration. Beside 
Faramir stood Legolas, son of Thranduil, Elven lord of a small colony in South 
Ithilien. It seemed to the hobbits that of all the Fellowship, Legolas had 
changed the least--not that it was surprising with him being an elf and all, 
they reasoned. His face was as fair as ever, and though his eyes showed the 
experience of many years, and much darkness, their light remained, and they 
brightened as he smiled down at them.

Next to Legolas was Gimli, son of Glóin, Lord of Aglarond, the Glittering Caves 
in Rohan. The elf and dwarf never missed an opportunity to meet each other in 
Gondor or Rohan, and when they had received the message that the hobbits were 
coming to Minas Tirith, each had thrust aside all other concerns in their rush 
to the reunion. Now they stood side-by-side, laughing and grinning at the 
excited shouts and waves of the hobbits as the procession reached the base of 
the steps.

In the very center of the steps, surrounded by the lords, ladies, and honor 
guards of Gondor and Rohan, upon a chair of carven polished wood, sat King 
Elessar, in his black mail girt with silver and white mantle, with the elfstone 
shining green at his throat. At his side, with her hand clasped lightly in his, 
sat Queen Arwen Evenstar, clothed in a shimmering gray raiment, even more 
radiant and lovely than the hobbits remembered. 

Looking at them, Frodo unconsciously touched the white gem that hung at his 
neck, a gift from Arwen a few days after her wedding. “When the memory of fear 
and darkness troubles you,” she had said, “this will bring you aid.” 

And it had. Frodo had been taken ill more than once since their departure from 
Gondor, and although the pain never completely faded, he found that when his 
hand clasped the gem of the Evenstar, the memory’s weight did seem to diminish a 
little. And for that alone, he owed the Queen of Gondor much gratitude.

The procession came to a halt at the foot of the steps, and a hush came over the 
crowd as the King and Queen of Gondor rose in unison. The company dismounted and 
stood waiting, as King Elessar raised his arms to them and proclaimed, “Today is 
a momentous occasion, for with the return of the Halflings and noble Gandalf the 
White, the Fellowship of the Ring is once again joined!”

A great cry erupted from the people, and the King spoke again. “Welcome, all 
honored heroes of the War of the Ring. For all the time that we are together in 
Minas Tirith, the Reunified Lands shall celebrate and honor the deeds of those 
who fought, sacrificed, and died in the War against Mordor. Come forth,” he 
beckoned them up the steps. “You are always the honored guests of the Halls of 
Kings, and tonight the White City shall honor your arrival.”

The company mounted up to him, each bowing and receiving words of welcome in 
turn. Eowyn and Eomer joined Faramir at Aragorn’s right hand, while Legolas and 
Gimli joyously greeted Gandalf and the hobbits. The people of Gondor cheered as 
Frodo and Sam kissed King Elessar’s hand in homage, and Aragorn and Arwen turned 
to lead the assembly back into the Halls. “Come, dear friends, you shall precede 
us,” said Aragorn to Frodo and Sam.

Blushing furiously, Sam replied softly, “We’re most grateful, Strider. But you 
really didn’t need to make such a fuss.”

***

Among the guards of Gondor stood one of many volunteers in White City’s ranks. 
But this guard had joined the armed men not out of loyalty or duty to King 
Elessar. To rise among the soldiers in the king’s service was the only way he 
might be granted liberty to move through the city and even the Halls of the 
Kings without being questioned. He had found in many centuries of existence that 
great rewards could result from patience. So he had endured the rigorous 
training of the Gondorrim in order to obtain the rank necessary to be granted 
liberty within the Halls. Liberty was needed, if he was to gain close access to 
his prey.

Still, it was an arduous task. Somehow the man doubted that he would have the 
time to ascend to the rank necessary to get within reach of the Queen. This 
knowledge was not terribly discouraging, for although the challenge of taking 
the Queen of Gondor had its appeal, the man had to admit that Arwen’s beauty was 
so great that he would be rather sorry to end her life. Nay, if he could find a 
source of endurance elsewhere, what better way to enjoy his own good fortune 
than to live within view of the Evenstar?

Nonetheless, this presented the problem of finding a source of power. The man 
had discovered the means of tapping this power long ago, when the survivors of 
Númenor had first come to Gondor. Concealed among them had been a few followers 
of Ar-Pharazôn, the King who had assaulted Valinor itself, resulting in his own 
destruction and that of his kingdom. With them had come a single relic of that 
King’s former plan--a simple device, infused with dark magic, that if wielded 
properly, could provide the user with immortality.

Assuming said user was able to obtain the one ingredient from which to obtain 
the immortality: an immortal.

It was this need which had led the man to Gondor. With the Elfstone on the 
throne, elves were making appearances far more often in the world of men, and it 
would be much easier for the hunter to move among his own race and stalk his 
prey than to attempt to steal into a realm full of none but elves--a 
near-impossible feat for any mortal.

Yet he had succeeded, for an entire age, he had managed, through slowly-gained 
skill, patience, and occasional luck, in finding elves from whom he could drain 
the energy that would keep him alive and hale as he had been in 3319 of the 
Second Age, when Elendil and his sons had founded the Realms in Exile, 
unknowingly bringing with them the means to bestow upon a mortal the gifts of 
the Firstborn. 

The man was cautious, never drawing attention to himself as a soldier, for as 
his long survival in the guise of a normal mortal had proven, he was no fool. He 
dared not reveal his secret to any other, for although he had managed to prey 
upon the lives of the Eldar for thousands of years, his identity had been 
discovered more than once, and the kindred of those whose immortality he had 
claimed still sought him. They knew his identity, but his careful planning had 
ensured that they would never find his whereabouts. At least not until he had 
claimed another prize, and then he would vanish again.

After all, why should they be the only ones to enjoy the fruits of eternal 
youth? Such a privilege belonged to he who had the means to take it. Any means.

***

Thranduil, King of the elves of Northern Eryn Lasgalen, watched with 
satisfaction as his people tended young seedlings in a scorched clearing. The 
defeat of Dol Guldor two years before had come with a heavy price: fire had 
swept through much of the forest and destroyed all of the wood elves’ outer 
palace. The past months had been spent clearing away the burned timber, much of 
which they sold to the men of Laketown for their own rebuilding, for the War of 
the Ring had been hard on their land as well, and the previous spring, they had 
begun replanting the devastated woods. The seedlings had been gifts from the 
other elven realms: mallorn from Lothlórien, to the delight of Thranduil’s 
people, elm and oak from Imladris, beeches from a southern stand in Eryn 
Lasgalen that had escaped the fire, and pine and redwood from Ithilien. 

Legolas had brought the seedlings from his realm on a visit nearly a year 
before. Thranduil wondered how long it would be before his youngest son visited 
again. It was true, Legolas had his own realm now to look after, and by all 
accounts Ithilien had suffered much during the war, and the elves and men there 
had their work cut out for them. But Legolas spoke with much love for the woods 
in that fair land, and was determined to restore it to its former beauty. 

*Perhaps I should go to visit him and see the place for myself,* Thranduil 
thought idly. Legolas was very proud of the colony his people were building 
there, and it would be an honor to him if his father came to view it. He was 
unlikely to accept much in the way of aid, and even less likely to ask for it, 
but if the King of North Eryn Lasgalen made a formal visit to the young Elven 
Lord of Ithilien, one would expect him to be bearing gifts. And if the gifts 
were substantial, well…Thranduil had always had a bit of a reputation among the 
Eldar for extravagance. And that Legolas would not be able to refuse.

Thranduil could not pretend he was entirely pleased with Legolas establishing 
the colony so close to so many mortal realms. Mordor to the near East was bad 
enough, even if the land was now leaderless, but Thranduil did not place nearly 
so much stock in the kingdoms of men that Legolas valued so highly. It was true, 
Gondor and Rohan had distinguished themselves during the War of the Ring, and so 
far, these past two years, they had managed to keep themselves out of trouble, 
but what would happen when hard times fell again? Or if the lands of men grew 
too prosperous? If they swelled enough, soon the mortals would covet the 
undoubtedly fair lands Legolas was lovingly nurturing, and what would the elf’s 
friendship to the leaders of men count for then? Thranduil liked not the 
possibility. Legolas was young yet, and judging by what Thranduil had seen on 
his return, his son had miraculously maintained his naïveté despite all the 
darkness he had experienced.

*Naïveté, what other explanation could there be for this bizarre attachment he 
has formed with a dwarf?* Thranduil had been astonished when Legolas had 
returned to Mirkwood with a dwarf at his side, his chin raised as though daring 
any of his kindred to dispute his right to name that dwarf elvellon. The elven 
king had attempted more than once to gently point out the misguided nature of 
his son’s judgment of the dwarf’s character, but Legolas would hear no ill words 
against…what was his name? Ah, Gimli. Or any of the other mortal friends he had 
acquired during the War of the Ring. The heir of Isildur now sat on the throne 
of the Reunified Lands, and Thranduil suspected that it was devotion to Aragorn 
and the other mortals that had led Legolas to remain in such close proximity. He 
had not disputed his son’s right to establish the colony once enough willing 
elves had joined the venture, and yet…*I still do not like it.* He knew that 
Legolas would be able to resist and survive any treachery among mortals, but 
Thranduil feared more for what it would do to his son’s spirit when these 
revered friends of his inevitably failed to return his loyalty.

*But it is no use. He is a grown elf, now Lord of his own realm, and it is not 
my place to interfere. Perhaps in time, when Eryn Lasgalen is well on the mend, 
I shall visit him, and make it known to him--subtly--that his father shall 
always be prepared to aid him when others prove less than faithful. When he 
takes such a gamble on mortal friends, the best I can do is never forsake him.*

“My lord!” a shout from one of the guards startled Thranduil out of his private 
thoughts. He looked up, and the guard pointed at a group of riding raising dust 
on the trail as they rode hard and fast toward the clearing.

Thranduil squinted through the obscuring cloud, for it was more ash than dirt, 
and beheld a golden-haired elven lord leading the small band. He rose at once 
from the chair in which he had been seated, a spike of alarm running through his 
heart. “It is Lord Celeborn!”

The riders wasted little time in reaching the clearing and barely managed to 
slow their horses to avoid charging over the new saplings. By now, all activity 
among the elves had ceased, for good reason. Celeborn’s face, normally 
controlled in even the ugliest circumstances (a fact Thranduil greatly admired) 
wore an expression of anxiety and gravity that Thranduil had never seen before. 
He crossed over to the elven king in swift, long strides, agitation plain with 
every step. “Lord Thranduil,” the Lord of East Lórien bowed somewhat hastily.

Thranduil bowed back, protocol forgotten in his concern. “My lord Celeborn, what 
is amiss?” he asked without preamble.

One of Celeborn’s escorts, Rúmil, was already asking one of Thranduil’s guards 
to bring the king’s horse. “My lord, I received tidings of the most serious 
nature, and am departing with all speed for Minas Tirith. But first I am come to 
urge you most strongly to accompany me.”

*By the Valar, what has happened?!* Thranduil’s heart began to pound. Under 
normal circumstances, he would not so easily drop all concerns at home at 
another elf’s word without demanding considerable explanation, but Celeborn’s 
behavior told him clearly that these were grave circumstances. He seconded 
Rúmil’s request for his horse, and turned back to Celeborn as the mount was 
brought. “Of course I shall rely on your judgment that my presence is required, 
my lord, but can you not tell me what is the need for this haste?”

There was a terrible look in Celeborn’s eyes, a combination of fear, urgency, 
grief, and a deeply-embedded, long-lasting rage. Thranduil took an involuntary 
step backward at the low, black tone of the elven lord’s voice. “A party of my 
elves on their way to Rivendell have sighted the Black Hunter.”

Thranduil’s heart leapt to his throat. Gasps and soft cries of horror reached 
his ears. It took a moment to find his voice. “Did he…were any of them…harmed?”

With a faint sigh, Celeborn shook his head. “Not that time. The scout saw him 
from a distance and they remained together and gave him a wide berth. But they 
have no doubt of his identity. He is on the move again.”

“Valar,” Thranduil whispered. The man Disaran was called many things by the 
Eldar. The Black Hunter, the Dark Thief, the Slaughterer, the Abomination…all 
names given to one man. Yet he was a man who could not truly be called a mortal, 
for he had first begun preying upon elves during the Second Age. The elves of 
many realms had sought him for centuries, trying to put an end to his evil 
pursuits, but no sooner did he strike than he vanished again. And when he was 
sighted…it was only a matter of time before another elf fell victim. 

“You understand now, my lord, why I beg you to come,” Celeborn said, watching 
the elven king’s face gravely. “Not only have you had dealings with this 
creature before, but…he was moving in the direction of Minas Tirith” His eyes 
were fearful now. 

And Thranduil understood with a surge of new, ever-increasing horror. Minas 
Tirith. Minas Tirith. Gondor! *The Abomination travels to Gondor, where the 
Evenstar is Queen, where there is a small elven colony, surrounded by men…A 
Elbereth! The Black Hunter approaches the home of my son!* Thranduil turned 
swiftly to two of his elves, ordering travel gear brought at once. “How many 
guards do you wish to accompany you, my lord?” asked one of his captains as the 
servants rushed off to do his bidding.

Thranduil looked at Celeborn, Rúmil, and Haldir, and slowly shook his head. “We 
shall go alone to the realm of Elessar. I do not want any more elves than 
necessary placed in the path of that creature.”

-----------------------------------------------------------

KUDOS: to all the perceptive reviewers who caught that minor detail that Arwen 
is no longer immortal. That comes into play later in the fic.

NOTE: This chapter includes multiple major departures from canon, but before the 
purists or (gasp!) the Canon Police write me a ticket, I demand the right to 
plead my case. Before you hang me, let me finish the story. All shall be 
explained.

# Check out my salute to David Eddings (another one of the great fantasy authors 
of our day) in this chapter. Hobbit points to anyone who can tell me which of 
his books it comes from!

EXPLANATION: This chapter contains more flashbacks to the Second Age with more 
on the origins of the Black Hunter’s weapon.


Chapter One: The Curse of Death

Númenor, the year 3308 of the Second Age…

Sauron found Ar-Pharazôn storming about the private chambers of his palace in a 
terrible fit of temper. “My lord? What is amiss?” he asked without preamble.

Ar-Pharazôn did not notice the lack of formality, for it was many years that 
Sauron had been counted among the closest and most trusted of his councilors. 
Indeed, he had hoped for just such a visit in this moment of unrest. “The guards 
reported an intruder beneath the White Tree last night. They believe a fruit was 
taken from it.” His eyes wild with the combination of fury and hidden fear that 
so often possessed the King of Númenor of late, he hissed, “An agent of the 
Eldar, Sauron? Can it be?”

Sauron closed his eyes and sighed heavily, shaking his head in dismay. “I fear 
so, my lord,” he said gravely. “And I hope you do not think it impertinent to 
remind you that I had feared just such a conspiracy.”

The High King slammed his fist into a tabletop. “That you did. And I regret most 
that I did not heed you, for I thought the pitiful servants of the Valar too 
spineless for such a bold move.”

“Has the intruder been found and the fruit of Nimloth retrieved, sire?”

“Nay. There is no sign of him, though we have searched all Rómenna, among the 
Faithful to the Valar and their puppets,” he spat the words as obscenities. 
“They have their spoil well-hidden.”

“What shall you do, then?” Ar-Pharazôn did not reply. Sauron moved closer to the 
enraged King’s side and spoke softly, “In light of these new and troublesome 
occurrences, my lord, will you not reconsider my…request?”

There was a long silence. Several times, as Ar-Pharazôn and his councilors had 
partaken more and more of the worship of Melkor, Sauron had urged them to 
destroy the one remnant of the Valar’s domination of Númenor. Yet they had not 
had the stomach for it before, but perhaps now…he waited in silent anticipation. 
Ar-Pharazôn abruptly whirled and bellowed for a guard. Sauron was forced to 
stifle a laugh at how his voice cracked; the Dark Lord’s seeds were bearing 
fruit indeed, between the machinations of the Faithful and Ar-Pharazôn’s own, 
growing fear of advancing age. Perhaps this time…the guard entered. “My lord?”

“Assemble my councilors!” He offered no details, but Sauron knew his hour had 
come. The King turned back to him and said darkly, “We shall preserve no 
pretense of good relations with those who spy and steal into our affairs in the 
night. The Valar have no might if they are reduced to such stealth. You have 
proven yourself a far truer benefactor, Sauron the Fair.”

Sauron bowed with all humility, “You honor me, my lord.” There would never be a 
more opportune moment to push Ar-Pharazôn into the next step down the path to 
ruin. As though struck by surprise, he observed, “My King, your hands tremble 
so. Shall a servant not bring you a glass of wine?”

Ar-Pharazôn spat and turned away, his shoulders slumping in a fashion that made 
the Dark Lord desire to howl in triumph. “It does no good, my loyal friend. No 
good any longer.” Moving to the window, he sighed and murmured, “I have so much 
yet to do, yet the years fly past so fleetingly. Cannot the Lord of the Darkness 
of whom you told me spare me this accursed mortality now?” Turning to face 
Sauron, there was a hint of despair in his eyes. “For if my strength fails me, 
what good are additional years?”

Sauron moved hastily to the King’s side, laying a hand upon his arm with great 
concern. “I see your worry, my great King, and I share it.” He shook his head in 
anger, “It is not enough that the Valar would curse the deserving with 
mortality, but they add to the insult with a waning of strength and vigor before 
the years are even spent.”

“Is there naught our Lord’s power can do to avail me of this affliction?”

Pretending to consider, Sauron stepped back. “It shall require consideration, my 
lord, but I shall endeavor to find a cure. I shall gather all my crafts and 
arts, and the best of our men to form some device that might yet stem the tide 
of age against your strength.”

Looking down at his shaking hand, Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes hardened, the momentary 
weakness banished by his return to typical ill-temper. “Fail me not in this, 
Sauron. For I shall bind you to my fate.”

“Have I ever failed you, my lord?”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It was a grand feast that the King and Queen of Gondor held for the reunited 
Fellowship, and merriment and song were as good a fare as the food that was 
served. With a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes, Arwen turned to Merry and 
Pippin, who were in the process of scarfing down a small cartload of mushrooms. 
“Do you find them to your liking, Dear Meriadoc and Peregrin? I was concerned 
that the mushrooms of Gondor might be of a less-appealing flavor than those you 
like in the Shire.”

While Pippin struggled to swallow without choking, Merry hastily bowed to her. 
“They are most delicious, my lady. As fine as any grown in the Shire, along with 
all the rest of this magnificent meal. We shall be the envy of all Hobbiton when 
we return with tales of your hospitality.”

Arwen beamed, and Aragorn snickered behind his hand. His queen had been greatly 
entertained by Aragorn’s stories of the hobbits in the early days of the 
quest--and their legendary appetites and appreciation for good food. With that 
in mind, she had arranged the feast with a fierce determination that guests of 
any race would be impressed.

And judging by the response of hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men alike, she had 
succeeded remarkably well. Legolas and the sons of Elrond were remarking 
appreciatively on the wine, Gimli, Faramir, and Eomer were admiring the 
perfection of the roasted meats, and the hobbits…well, the hobbits liked 
everything. Gimli turned to them, “On your way back to the Shire, my friends, 
you must stop in Rohan and view the Glittering Caves. I’ve made a very fine 
dwarven home there in two years.” Legolas muttered something about dwarven 
standards of fineness, but Gimli ignored him.

Merry was eager, Pippin willing enough, but Frodo and Sam looked doubtful. “It’s 
not anything like Moria, is it?” asked Sam.

Instead of being offended, the dwarf laughed. “I expect it is as Moria was when 
it was filled with dwarves and not orcs, but it is much different from the caves 
you saw. Many of my people have come to it, and the men of Rohan visit us often 
to trade for metals and gems. It is quite a bustling place these days. I could 
scarce find time to leave it.”

Eomer nodded in agreement, “He speaks the truth; I have seen Aglarond as it is 
now. It is a fine place, beautiful to behold. You should be most welcome in 
Rohan on your journey home.”

The hobbits exchanged glances. Frodo eyed Gimli’s rather hopeful expression and 
smiled, “Then of course, we shall come!” He suspected it had something to do 
with Legolas being Gimli’s best friend, and the member of the Fellowship who 
Gimli saw most frequently. Though the elf had admitted being awed on his visit 
to Aglarond during the War of the Ring, it was immensely difficult to get him 
willingly into a cave of any kind. The least the rest of them could do while 
they were in the neighborhood was pay a visit to the colony Gimli was so proud 
to be building.

“I hope you will also come to visit South Ithilien,” said Legolas then. “For the 
labors of Faramir and myself have given much to the fair land.”

“I owe much to the elves for their work on the gardens of Emyn Arnen,” said 
Faramir. “My lady’s and my dwelling has grown beautiful, and the colony of 
Legolas is a sight to behold.”

“Tell me, Lord Faramir, do you run into much…trouble, still being so close to 
Mordor?” asked Sam.

It was Eowyn who answered. “Orcs and foul creatures were scattered by the 
Enemy’s fall, but they were not wiped out. We maintain a vigilant guard on the 
Eastern side, and so far we have fared well. There have been a few marauding 
bands that attempted to assault some of the outlying dwellings, but my lord’s 
White Company provides the protection needed.”

Faramir grinned, “There speaks the captain of the guard.” Eowyn shot him a 
mock-glare.

Leaping to her defense, Merry replied, “I wager Lady Eowyn could do more than 
her share of protecting if she still fights as well as she did before.”

With a little bat of her eyes, Eowyn said, “I have kept up practice, and none 
have claimed that my skills are dulled.”

“Nor shall we,” said Faramir, before he found himself the target of more of 
Eowyn’s admirers. “She keeps the guards on their toes.” The company laughed.

Arwen started as though just remembering something. “I had not thanked you, 
Samwise, for the rose bushes you brought. They shall earn a place of honor among 
our gardens.” All of the hobbits had brought gifts of one kind or another for 
their hosts, and Sam had brought a small cart of carefully-potted flowers from 
the gardens of the Shire for Minas Tirith.

Sam blushed to his ears. “You’re most welcome, my lady. This was a very good 
year for Shire roses.”

“I’ll say it was!” added Merry. “Sam married one!”

Shouts of approval and congratulations mingled with laughter and applause all 
along the tables, and Sam blushed harder. “I had a mind to bring Rosie with me, 
but we decided she’d better stay and keep an eye on Bag End.”

“She couldn’t make a journey like that anyway,” said Pippin. “She’s expecting!”

Sam glared furiously at Pippin. Legolas and Gimli both froze with food halfway 
to their mouths and Aragorn dropped his spoon. Gandalf laughed, and even louder 
exclamations of delight rang out through the banquet hall. “And just how long 
did you intend keeping that happy news a secret, Master Samwise?” demanded 
Faramir.

“Just waiting for the right time,” muttered Sam, his face now the color of a 
beet. 

Aragorn decided to spare Sam additional embarrassment by changing the subject to 
the events in the Shire. “I had heard that grievous was the treatment of the 
hobbits during the War. Is all well now? I would help if the need exists.”

The hobbits beamed. “All is more than well, lord,” said Frodo. “Thanks to Sam, 
and also the Lady Galadriel.”

Arwen raised curious eyebrows, and Merry explained, “When the Lady gave us all 
parting gifts on our way from Lorien, she gave Sam a little box of earth to help 
start a garden.” The Queen smiled, apparently familiar with the qualities of the 
soil of Galadriel. “Well, as you probably heard, when we got back to the Shire, 
things were a right mess. Poor Sam was beside himself, for they’d cut down the 
party tree where Bilbo Baggins had his birthday celebration, and lots of the 
fields and gardens spoiled, and trees cut down right and left! We didn’t know 
how we’d ever recover it.”

The faces of the elves at the table had grown long at hearing this, for they all 
had heard the hobbits’ tales of the beauty of the Shire. Seeing their saddened 
eyes, Sam said quickly, “But I had that little box of elf dust--” Legolas 
chuckled, “--so when we planted the new saplings and seedlings, we put a little 
speck of it everywhere.”

“Generous, he was,” said Pippin. “Merry thought Sam should use it to make a 
nursery, and that might have been good too, but not as good to the Shire as 
spreading it around turned out to be. That spring, why, you would have had to 
see it to believe it! All the trees, plants, bushes, and flowers grew again, 
fair and strong; not a one withered or died. Sam had planted the little silver 
nut on the party field, and it grew a mallorn tree! The most splendid silver 
tree that ever was seen, and the only one west of the mountains, so we’ve been 
told. There were fruits aplenty--we brought some with us.”

“And a fine addition to the feast they were,” said Eomer appreciatively, helping 
himself to a strawberry--astonishingly fat and sweet for so late in the year.

“Sam and Rosie’s wedding was a sight to see,” Merry told the company. “It was on 
the party field in the spring near that mallorn sapling, and there was more food 
than Bilbo’s birthday party! We had hoped she would come with us to meet you 
all, but she’s expecting soon in the spring, so she really couldn’t.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Aragorn with a smile. “I would have liked to meet 
her.”

“You’d be most welcome in the Shire, my lord,” said Sam. “There was also a very 
great yield of corn and barley this year; the brews were something marvelous. 
And the leaf was the best I have ever seen. We brought you a whole bale of it.”

“Now THAT was a gift for a king!” declared Gimli. Aragorn nodded in vigorous 
agreement, and the company laughed harder.

“There’s a fine big bale of it for you, too, Mr. Gimli.”

There came then a sweet ringing of a utensil upon a silver goblet, and Faramir 
rose, beckoning for silence and raising his goblet up. “My lords and ladies, I 
give you the king!”

“The king!” Hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men sprang to their feet and toasted 
the health of Aragorn, who suddenly looked rather sheepish and more like the 
Strider they all remembered who disliked such attention.

Legolas rose then, and gave a toast to Queen Arwen. Then Aragorn claimed the 
right to toast the Ring-Bearers, and so it went on, long into the night. The 
company was very merry, the wine circulated swiftly, and Legolas and Aragorn 
were soon eyeing each other across the table. “What ails you two?” demanded 
Gimli.

Aragorn ignored him, glaring at Legolas. “Do not even THINK about it!”

“I said nothing!” protested the elf, feigning innocence.

“You shall not get me this time!” To prove his point, Aragorn passed up the next 
round of toasts, and Legolas abandoned his attempts to goad the king. 

“This time?” Frodo whispered to Sam. 

Sam shrugged. “Legolas and Strider were friends before we were born, so they 
say. Who knows what sort of mischief they got up to when they were young.”

Legolas heard him of course, and began to laugh. “I could relate stories of our 
liege that would shock this stately court, Samwise!”

“And I could relate tales of this elven prince that would scandalize his kin,” 
retorted Aragorn, pretending to scowl.

The hobbits were open-mouthed by now, but Elladan decided to jump in. “Legolas 
has been scandalizing his kin since the day he was born, and you, my dear 
Elessar, are so scruffy and unrefined that any royal court would be shocked by 
you. Were you not so good with that sword, they’d have demanded that Frodo be 
king!”

Gimli let out a great bellow of laughter. Frodo choked on his wine, and received 
a swift thump in the back from Sam, and the toasting began again. “My friends, I 
give you the newly-wed and soon-to-be proud father, Samwise Gamgee!”

“Hear, hear!” The company toasted this news with as much gusto as they had 
saluted the king.

Sam got into the act next, “I give you Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the 
Great!”

“Let us not forget Mithrandir!”

“My thanks, Lord Faramir!”

“I give you Legolas, Elven Lord of Ithilien!” declared Gimli, deftly dodging an 
elbow from the elf.

Not to be outdone, Legolas sprang up and cried, “I give you Gimli, Lord of the 
Glittering Caves!”

“I give you Eomer, King of the Mark!” announced Aragorn, exchanging an overly 
extravagant bow with the Rohirrim king.

The toasting was growing progressively louder and more boisterous. Arwen caught 
Eowyn’s eye, and they rose, soon joined by the other ladies in the room. “I 
think it is time we retired. I bid you gentlemen good night,” said the Queen of 
Gondor with a knowing smile. 

The ladies exited the banquet hall as the toasting erupted anew, and the door 
closed on the sound of one of the lords of Rohan saying, “Gentlemen, I give you 
my dog, Bowser!”#

***

Although most of them were decidedly the worse for a night’s toasting, most of 
the revelers arrived at breakfast the following morning, though the food was not 
nearly so celebrated as it had been the previous night. Aragorn had managed to 
restrain himself, and suffered fewer ill effects than most of the men. The 
elves, of course, showed not a sign at all. “How does Frodo fare this morning?” 
the king asked Sam as the hobbit came to the table.

Sam smiled, “He did drink quite a lot of wine, but he’s not too bad off. He’ll 
be down in a few minutes.”

Exchanging a glance with Gandalf, Aragorn elaborated, “How does Frodo fare 
otherwise?”

Sam’s face fell slightly, confirming his friends’ worries. “He’s been ill a few 
times, Strider. I’ve been a mite worried about him. Sometimes he seems to be 
half-dreaming,, and all melancholy, and his duties as mayor wore him out 
something dreadful. He left office this past Mid-Year’s Day, but he still seems 
so out of spirit’s sometimes. That’s part of why I wanted us all to meet again 
here in Minas Tirith; I thought seeing all of you again would cheer him up.”

Gandalf and Aragorn listened solemnly, and Gimli and Legolas had also joined 
them, their faces concerned. “Will Frodo ever recover from the darkness?” 
murmured the elf, his eyes dark.

Sam smiled then. “‘Tis a good thing we made the journey, Mr. Legolas, for Mr. 
Frodo’s been more lively these past couple of days than in quite a while. Even 
this morning I know all that wine wasn’t too good for him, but he’s in good 
spirits because it was fun. Now he’s talking of all the things he wants to do 
and see while we’re here, and not thinking so much of the War. Oh, Mr. Legolas, 
you’ll take us to see Ithilien, won’t you? He’s so looking forward to that.”

“Most definitely,” Legolas said with an emphatic nod. 

“I will go ahead of you and make sure those orc bands are well taken care of,” 
offered Gandalf. He did not speak it, but all agreed that there had better not 
be any orc attacks while Frodo was there. The hobbit needed his peace.

“I shall send a message to the captains with you,” said the elf. Turning back to 
Sam, he added, “And I am sure Gimli will be equally glad to oblige you with a 
trip through the Glittering Caves. As caves go, I must admit, they are not so 
bad.”

The company laughed at that, and Gimli slapped Legolas on the shoulder, and so 
it was this scene that Frodo came upon when he entered the Hall. “Come and sit 
beside me, Frodo,” Aragorn bade him, beckoning. 

“How long do you intend to stay?” Faramir asked them.

“Well, you understand we can’t be gone from home too long, what with Rosie…” Sam 
blushed and the others grinned. 

“I hope you will stay at least until the Festival of the New Year,” said Arwen. 
Of course, the hobbits could not refuse.

Sam was right; there was color in Frodo’s cheeks and a smile that came easily to 
his face as he listened and talked with the rest of the Fellowship, sharing more 
news of all their doings since they had last been together. Aragorn lingered for 
some time at breakfast before at last breaking himself away to return to his 
court. Arwen invited Sam and Frodo to accompany her to the gardens and decide 
where would be the best spots for Sam’s flowers. 

Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, did not rouse themselves until almost noon.

***

Disaran, off-duty in a courtyard not far from the gardens, watched Arwen 
Evenstar escorting the Halflings through the stone terraces, selecting carefully 
the location for each of the small plants and bushes that the hobbits carried. 
He was surprised at how freely the Queen of Gondor moved throughout the White 
City, and thought that it really would not be hard at all to take her. That was 
one of the conveniences of Ar-Pharazôn’s little weapon: it was relatively quick, 
needing only a second to take effect and minutes to do all that was needed. All 
Disaran had to do was get his target alone.

Experimentally, he ambled a little further into the gardens, just to see how 
close he could get. Suddenly a guard seemed to materialize before him, “Where 
are you going, Lafin?” (Lafin was the name Disaran had assumed as a soldier of 
Gondor.)

Centuries of experience made Disaran quite skilled at dissembling. “I was 
just…ah…” he blushed at will and glanced at Arwen.

The guard came to the conclusion Disaran had intended, and said sternly, but 
with understanding, “Look to your duties, man. The Queen’s not to be gawked 
at…no matter how tempting it is,” he added with a knowing wink.

*So she’s better guarded than I thought. I shall have to try elsewhere. But that 
is why I came to Gondor, to find easy bait. I shall make for Ithilien if I must, 
but I may yet find what I seek within the city.* 

As if in answer to his thoughts, a musical voice called out to the Queen, and 
she turned to raise a hand in greeting to the fair-haired elf who walked out 
into the garden. From his position, Disaran heard all that they said. So this 
was Legolas, Elven Lord of Ithilien, telling the Queen that he meant to take the 
hobbits to the colony next week. The Queen readily gave her permission, and said 
that a guard of Gondor would go with them.

The two elves rejoined the hobbits and raised their voices in a sweet, lovely 
song of the elves that crossed the sea. The hobbits ceased their planting and 
sat around the pair, listening silently. Disaran smiled maliciously as the fair 
notes floated through the clear autumn air. This really was too easy…

***

A few days later…

All the fanfare of the famous Fellowship’s arrival had passed on the previous 
day, and the people of Gondor did not expect the appearance of any new 
celebrities. So it came as quite a shock to all when a party of four elves was 
spotted riding from the north, very fast. The guards at the gate did not 
recognize them, but knew that all elves were welcome in Minas Tirith, and so let 
them in.

Faramir was coming down the steps of the Halls when he spotted the elven riders. 
Having been in Minas Tirith during the wedding of Arwen and Elessar, he 
recognized one of them. “Lord Celeborn?” he asked in surprise and alarm, noting 
the elven lord’s grave face and the signs of hard travel upon horses and riders.

Celeborn wasted no time dismounting, and came up the steps swiftly, with another 
golden-haired elf beside him, who also looked to be noble. It was the second one 
who spoke first, and his urgent tone startled Faramir greatly. “Where is my 
son?”

Confused, Faramir glanced at Celeborn, who shot the other elf a quelling look 
and said, “My Lord Faramir, I present Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the 
elves of Eryn Lasgalen.”

Faramir’s heart lurched. What was Legolas’s father doing here? By all accounts 
the King of Mirkwood had little interest in meeting men. What did this mean? 
Realizing the elves were staring at him, he bowed and said, “By your leave, 
Lords, I shall bring you before King Elessar. If Legolas is not with him, the 
king will know where he may be found.”

***

Aragorn was startled when Faramir interrupted the court and said that there were 
some unexpected but urgent visitors. The King noted in surprise the rather 
intense look Faramir shot Legolas, who was standing by the throne at the time, 
as though Faramir were trying to convey something. Aragorn and Legolas had no 
time to do more than exchange a baffled glance when Lord Celeborn walked swiftly 
in--followed by King Thranduil. 

Aragorn froze, Legolas went rigid, and Elladan and Elrohir stared at the sight 
of the King of the former Mirkwood, all trying to discern what by the Valar he 
was doing here. Legolas had sadly voiced the likelihood that Thranduil would 
never come to Ithilien, let alone Gondor to acknowledge Aragorn’s kingship. 
Gimli’s head whipped from Legolas to his father and then back again, realizing 
that Legolas had no idea what had brought the elven king here. Whatever the 
reason, none of them expected it to be good.

Perhaps in the initial shock, only Aragorn noticed the expression that briefly 
crossed the elven king’s face when he spotted Legolas beside the throne. Relief. 
As if he had been concerned for Legolas for some reason (other than his choice 
in friends, this time) and now that he had found his son, his worry was slightly 
diminished. 

Celeborn bowed, and Thranduil echoed it (if slightly grudgingly.) “My Lord 
Elessar, forgive our abrupt arrival. We come on matters most urgent and grave.”

Aragorn rose and bowed in return. “Then of course, my court shall hear you, Lord 
Celeborn, King Thranduil. Pray, speak.”

“My lord,” Celeborn’s face was very tense, “a man has been sighted approaching 
Gondor who poses a great threat to the elves in this kingdom.” His eyes flicked 
to the twins. Elladan gasped softly and Elrohir turned pale. Celeborn gave a 
barely-perceptible nod, and both closed their eyes, swallowing hard. 

Aragorn stared at them, then turned a now equally-grave face to Celeborn. “Who 
is this man?”

“His name is Disaran. Among the Eldar, he is known more often as the Black 
Hunter.” 

Aragorn spared a quick glance around the room. The elves now had the undivided 
attention of every one of the mortals, and with good reason. Thranduil and 
Celeborn looked as if they had ridden non-stop through a dust storm to get here, 
and now their news…Legolas’s jaw was clenched, Elladan was nearly rigid with 
tension, and Elrohir was white-faced. He wondered if Arwen knew any of these 
tidings, and hoped she did not. He would not see her so frightened. “What has 
this man done to the elves?” the king asked quietly, dreading the reply.

Celeborn made no immediate reply, and so Thranduil spoke up. “He has been 
responsible for the murder of dozens of our kind since the Second Age.” Aragorn 
blinked, and the elven king went on, “We know not how, but the mortal came into 
possession of a device that can drain the life from an elf, granting the user 
with greatly extended youth, but not total immortality. To keep the youth, it 
must be used again and again, and Disaran has done so. He remains the same age 
in health and appearance as he was during the days of the foundations of the 
Realms in Exile, but he has murdered without a qualm in order to keep this youth 
and health. We know not the exact number of his victims, but the Black Hunter 
may have drained away the life of as many as a hundred Eldar.”

“He is a cold-blooded killer,” whispered Elladan, and Aragorn turned to him, 
alarmed by the tone of his voice. “Elven children have oft been preyed upon by 
him. Any immortal can grant him unchanging youth for a length of time, but as 
soon as he feels himself beginning to age again, he hunts, killing several elves 
before disappearing once more.”

Thranduil nodded, “His identity was discovered after one of the murders many 
centuries ago, and so he hides as long as he can. When he is seen abroad in the 
land, there can be only one reason. He is seeking new prey. Every elf in Middle 
Earth is in danger while this creature is abroad, for he has learnt many skills 
and tricks. For all our efforts to capture him, we have found only his victims, 
too late.”

Aragorn felt a terrible coldness in his stomach. Thranduil of Mirkwood--Eryn 
Lasgalen, he corrected himself--was not an elf given to admitting weakness. And 
yet here he was, practically blurting out that he had no way of protecting the 
elves from this killer. *Therefore, I had best not underestimate this Black 
Hunter, if he can drive Thranduil to such fear. Then again,* he glanced at 
Legolas, *I doubt it is for his own interests that Thranduil has gone to such 
lengths to reach Minas Tirith.* His mind whirling with these strange and 
foreboding tidings, he tried to think of an intelligent question to ask, “How 
was he first identified?”

Wrong question. Every elf in the room winced, and Celeborn briefly closed his 
eyes. In a very soft voice, the Lord of Lothlorien replied, “He was seen using 
the device the very second time that he struck, and so we realized what he was 
doing…when he killed my son.”

For several moments, no one spoke. Aragorn fought the urge to bury his face in 
his hands. *I did not know Celeborn and Galadriel had ever HAD a son!* Taking a 
deep breath to calm his thudding heart and churning stomach, he slowly rose, 
looking around the throne room to each of the witnesses there. “All the strength 
of Gondor shall be alerted to the defense of the Eldar within and without our 
borders.”

Eomer caught his eye and Aragorn nodded; the King of the Mark rose. “And that of 
Rohan as well.”

Celeborn nodded his thanks, but said, “My lords, I warn and beg you not to 
underestimate Disaran. We know his face, but he shall carry another name. He can 
conceal himself as many different men, and has much skill at arms. Elves must 
not travel alone until some clue of his whereabouts is found, or he will strike 
at the first opportunity. That is how it always happens. I must speak plainly,” 
he looked sorrowful, but said, “Do not think that the Abomination would not dare 
attack the Queen. For if he sees the chance to strike her or any other Eldar, he 
shall use it before any have a chance to come to her aid. His weapon is swift 
and terrible, for it can drain all the life from the victim in a moment.”

“But Arwen is no longer…” Elladan protested, turning paler still.

“Disaran knows much about elven skills, but little about our lore. He may not 
realize that. If he attacks the Queen, his weapon would still kill her.”

Aragorn’s hand spasmed, and he realized that he was clenching the arms of his 
throne. He felt nauseated. It was a deadly foe indeed who could frighten these 
elven lords so greatly. “I shall issue a proclamation immediately warning of 
this creature’s presence. Have you a description of him?”

“There is a portrait drawn from memory, but I do not have it with me,” said 
Celeborn, looking like he wanted to curse himself. “I am still able to describe 
him well, for I shall never forget his face.”

Aragorn ordered a scroll brought at once and noted down the description Celeborn 
gave with growing dismay. Perhaps the elven lord did not realize this 
description fit more than half of the men in Gondor. Why, it even fit 
Faramir--to some extent, anyway. Black hair, brown eyes, between thirty and 
forty years of age, an average height for a man…Aragorn tried not to look 
discouraged. But he affixed his seal to the proclamation and ordered the heralds 
to read it at once. Eomer dispatched one to Rohan as well. 

Ending the Court for the day, the company walked from the throne room through 
the Halls of Kings, engaging in worried conversation. “How far out of Gondor was 
he when last seen?”

“He was moving south from the Misty Mountains in the spring before the rains 
came, but the news did not reach me until a week ago,” said Celeborn.

“Elbereth, he could be in Gondor by now, or Rohan at least!” said Elladan.

“I must get to Ithilien!” Legolas exclaimed, his eyes anxious. “He may see the 
colony as easy prey!”

“You cannot go alone, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “I shall arrange guards for you.”

“Not just any guards!” said Thranduil sharply.

“Quite right, my lord. Faramir,” Aragorn ordered. “Select a contingent of guards 
from the White Company to return with Legolas to Ithilien. Make sure they are 
ones you know.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir hurried away.

Legolas glanced out the window. Night was falling, it looked like a storm was 
coming, and the thought that the Black Hunter might at this moment be drawing 
nigh unto Ithilien made him ill with fear. Death was always a painful experience 
among the elves, but the murders that Disaran committed--the most senseless 
waste imaginable. “I shall get my horse and meet you at the gate--”

“NOT alone!” the entire company chorused. 

“I’ll go with him,” growled Gimli. “Any man who would lay hand on him shall have 
me to contend with.”

“I shall go, and to Ithilien as well,” said Thranduil. “He has never been known 
to attack elves in pairs.” The elven king apparently expected Gimli to 
relinquish his claim to accompany Legolas, but the dwarf did not, and so, eyeing 
each other suspiciously, they both left, flanking the prince.

***

*Curse those elven lords!* Disaran sprinted out of the Halls of Kings. Once that 
proclamation was made, he would have barely any chance to catch an elf in 
Gondor. He might have to flee and try his luck at the Grey Havens unless he 
could get one within a few hours. 

He could think of only one chance of succeeding, but it was a gamble. Legolas of 
Ithilien was leaving, accompanied by guards of Faramir’s White Company. Disaran 
hid near one of the common areas where the guards often stayed, and watched for 
someone passing, thankful the storm had driven most inside. Just as he was 
beginning to fear he would find none, two of the White Company came hurrying 
through the wind, eager to get under cover before the storm hit, their helmets 
under their arms. Disaran took up a heavy dagger in each hand, came up behind, 
and struck both in the heads with the hilts. Blood on the uniforms would give 
him away. He chose the one closest to his size, and dragged him out of sight. 
There was little time left.

He saw the younger elf, his target, accompanied by the elven king and the dwarf. 
They would need to be separated. He would need to arrange some kind of help. 
Spotting several younger guards coming to start their shift, he affected great 
panic and shouted frantically for them to come to his aid.

***

The rain had not yet begun to fall, but the wind blew and lightning flashed as 
two elves and a dwarf hurried into the stables. “I do not like you traveling in 
this weather, Legolas,” Gimli said. “You should wait until daylight. Even elves 
may find it hard to see in such conditions.”

“The Black Hunter struck Mirkwood when I was a child, Gimli,” said the elf 
softly, taking his horse out while Thranduil stood within sight by the door. “He 
killed six of my kindred before vanishing again. If he reaches Ithilien…” 
Legolas shook his head. “I cannot delay. These are my people, my charge. I must 
warn them and make proper precautions.”

“But what if you are right and that creature is headed for Ithilien!” protested 
Gimli. “Will you be any safer there?”

“Gimli,” Legolas smiled, almost laughing in spite of their anxiety. “Mithrandir 
is in Ithilien at this very moment, checking the activity of the borders with 
Mordor. Even the Black Hunter may think twice of attacking my realm while an 
Istar is there, but first I must warn them that he approaches.” 

The sound of running feet startled both of them, and Thranduil moved quickly to 
his son’s side, as a rider from the White Company burst into the stables, out of 
breath and wild-eyed. “My duty, Lords!” he cried, saluting hastily. “Lord 
Aragorn bids you come at once--the Queen has been attacked!” 

Legolas wheeled around and raced for the door. “Where?” 

“The Houses of Healing, my lord!” the man led him swiftly through the dark 
streets, with Gimli and Thranduil behind them.

Another group of guards, younger ones from the King‘s Halls, swiftly joined 
them, “My lords, Lord Celeborn begs you to return to the Halls! They may have 
the man responsible!”

The three froze, torn and unsure of which way to run. “I will return to the 
palace,” said Thranduil, sensing that Legolas would want to see Arwen.

“Take the guards with you!” his son cried, and waved the men after the elven 
king. They obeyed at once, and Legolas sprinted after the White Company rider.

“Legolas, take care!” shouted Gimli, unable to keep up with Legolas at such an 
all-out run, but the elf could think of nothing but how Aragorn would be 
destroyed if Arwen were slain. The dwarf soon fell far behind. The street was 
straight to the Houses of Healing, but the storm made it so dark that Gimli 
could only see the elf and the guard clearly when the lightning flashed.

***

Thranduil and his escort of guards raced back to the Halls of Kings and found 
Faramir and Aragorn there with Celeborn. Seeing him, they rushed forward. “What 
happened?!” all four cried in unison.

Then they froze. The guards spoke first, “One of the White Company guards said 
the Queen had been attacked and you had the Hunter, my lord!”

“What? The Queen is under guard within the Halls!” cried Faramir.

The flash of lightning showed the color drain from Aragorn’s face as he met 
Thranduil’s eyes. Leaping off the steps, he roared at Faramir, “Call out the 
guard but stay with Celeborn!” and tore down the street with Thranduil and the 
men at his heels. *Valar do not let us be too late!*

*****

Númenor, the Year 3310 of the Second Age…

Upon a hill in the midst of the City of the Númenóreans, stood a mighty temple, 
Armenelos the Golden, in the form of a circle at the base, with walls fifty feet 
in thickness that rose from the ground five hundred feet, crowned in a mighty 
dome five hundred feet across. And the dome was roofed all with silver, rising 
glittering in the sun so that the light of it could be seen afar off. It was a 
splendid sight, this new construction, and upon this day within the Temple the 
altar of fire was to be lit for the first time.

Dressed in their finest garments, Ar-Pharazôn the High King and all his 
councilors were assembled along with the nobility of Númenor, with the 
exceptions of a few among their number who stubbornly (and most foolishly) 
persisted in following the teachings of the feeble Valar. The King’s guards blew 
their trumpets and all the men bowed as the King’s truest councilor, Sauron the 
servant of Melkor, stepped to the front of the temple to christen it in the name 
of the Lord of the Darkness. “Bring the wood for the altar!”

A low intake of breath issued from the assembled as two of the Temple guards 
brought forth a great pile of wood to start the fire of worship of Melkor, for 
all could see that it was the hewn wood of Nimloth, the White Tree, felled at 
last in spite of the Valar. The wood was flung upon the altar, and Ar-Pharazôn 
stepped forward. “This day, our hearts and our faith shall be placed in the 
hands of the Lord of the Darkness, the Giver of Freedom, that he may favor us 
with his power and free us from the curse of death!”

All bowed, including Sauron, but before the King could light the white wood, the 
Dark Lord stayed his hand. “I beg your indulgence, my lord. I would present to 
you a token of fealty, to the glory of you and the Lord of All, that this day 
may show proof of the power of Melkor.” 

At the King’s nod, Sauron reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a 
stone, oval in shape, fitting easily in the palm of his hand. Black it was, but 
not completely dark, for the faintest flickers of light passed through it as he 
held it aloft before the curious stares of the King and onlookers. It was cut 
with wide facets like a great gem and gleamed dully in the light of the sun 
through the top of the Temple dome. “Behold!” Sauron cried. “Already the Lord’s 
power shall be displayed, and the High King of Númenor may begin the first steps 
on the path set by Melkor to true immortality!” With a low bow, he held the 
stone out to Ar-Pharazôn.

The King took it, examining it cautiously. “And how shall I use this pretty 
rock, my sweet-worded servant?”

“Forgive me, my lord. I shall demonstrate its use. As I promised, you shall be 
freed of the ailments of age with this weapon against mortality, and soon the 
gift of the Valar and the Eldar shall be yours.” Sauron shouted to the guards at 
the door, “Bring forth the sacrifice!”

To the murmurs of surprise from the Númenóreans, two guards dragged in a 
struggling figure in white robes. Sauron strode forward and pulled back the 
robe’s hood to reveal a fair face framed with long, golden hair, and bright, 
horrified eyes. An elf. With a little smile, Sauron explained, “This creature 
was discovered after landing a ship against the King’s edicts, attempting to 
make his way to the traitorous elf-friends in Rómenna.” With a mocking smile, he 
drew a hand gently down the elf’s cheek, laughing as his prisoner’s lips curled 
in revulsion. “Thus you see before you the bearer of the gifts of the Valar--an 
immortal! Freed from the curse of death regardless of whether he is deserving or 
no. An unjust fate, is it not?”

“The will of Ilúvatar is not for you to dispute!” cried the elf in anger, but a 
fierce blow to the ribs from one of the guards doubled him over and silenced 
him.

Sauron laughed again, and addressed the men rather than the captive. “Dispute? 
Nay. The Valar have possessed themselves of the land where there is no death, 
and they lie to you concerning it, hiding it as best they may, because of their 
avarice, and their fear lest the Kings of Men should wrest from them the 
deathless realm and rule the world in their stead. And though, doubtless, the 
gift of life unending is not for all, but only for such as are worthy, being men 
of might and pride and great lineage, yet against all justice is it done this 
gift, which is his due, should be withheld from the King of Kings, Ar-Pharazôn, 
mightiest of the sons of Earth, to whom Manwë alone can be compared, if even 
he.” 

Murmurs of agreement were rippling through the men as Ar-Pharazôn lifted his 
chin proudly at Sauron’s words. Even then, the elf, his eyes wide in dismay, 
shook his head in despair and grief at the thraldom before him. Hurling off the 
captive’s cloak, leaving him clad in a tunic and trousers of white linen, Sauron 
drew the struggling elf to him, bearing his chest. To the men and their King, he 
shouted, “But great kings do not brook denials, and take what is their due!”

Over the shouts of assent, he pressed the black stone hard against the elf’s 
chest. The result was instantaneous. The elf gasped, his eyes losing focus, and 
began to sag back against his captor. The black stone in turn began to burn with 
orange light as though bright flames burnt within its dark facets. Sauron’s eyes 
grew visibly brighter, a smile of predatory pleasure upon his face, as stone 
darkened again and the elf went limp. The onlookers let out a collective 
exclamation of awe as Sauron drew the stone away, and the elf fell bonelessly to 
the floor of the Temple, his immortal life quenched.

With a long breath as though savoring a good meal, Sauron held the stone up 
again. “Thus, men of Númenor! Behold the weapon that will wrest the gift of the 
Eldar to any deserving one who wields it by the will of Melkor, Lord of All! I 
henceforth gift it to your King, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, as the one most 
deserving to possess the bringer of immortality, to use as he sees fit!” With 
great deference, he presented the stone with Ar-Pharazôn, who took it with far 
more reverence this second time. “Thus the Lord Melkor shows his favor of you, 
my lord, and the Temple you have constructed in his name.” He motioned to the 
guards, who lifted the dead elf, and bade them place him atop the hewn wood of 
Nimloth. “And here today shall burn the first of our sacrifices, in gratitude 
for this gift and that he may yet release you all from Death.” Turning to 
Ar-Pharazôn, he smiled, “Another elf was taken from the ship that brought this 
one, my lord. Will you partake of Melkor’s gift?” He did not wait for 
Ar-Pharazôn’s eager permission, but called to the guards who brought in a second 
elf, fighting desperately when he spied the fate of his companion.

At Sauron’s assurance that the Stone would answer to his will, Ar-Pharazôn 
seized his victim around the neck and pressed the weapon against his skin. The 
results were just as they had been for Sauron, and seeing the King’s elation, 
the men cried, “Hail, Ar-Pharazôn, King of the Earth! The first of Immortal 
Men!”

Soon the second elf fell dead like the first, and his fair body was laid upon 
the altar. Eyes wild with mad elation, besotted by the vigor the Stone’s art had 
given him, Ar-Pharazôn cried, “Let Lord Sauron set the first fire in the altar, 
most faithful of my servants who has brought to us so many gifts!”

And so the hewn wood of Nimloth was set ablaze and consumed along with the 
bodies of the first victims of the new servants of Melkor. But the smoke turned 
the silver of the Temple’s dome black, and men marveled at the reek that went up 
from it, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days, until slowly it 
passed into the west. 

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

Legolas raced toward the door of the Houses of Healing, expecting to see a 
throng of people and guards, but finding no one at all. In confusion, he reached 
for the door and found it bolted. He turned around and froze--the White Company 
guard was grinning at him, a look of cold triumph on his face. 

In a flash, the elf had his knives out. “Did you harm Arwen?” he demanded, his 
heart pounding as he realized he was face-to-face with the Black Hunter.

Disaran laughed. “Of course not! Why risk my skin chasing her when I can find 
easier prey! You are all the same to me, my dear elf!” A small, round object was 
clasped in the palm of his hand, black as obsidian, and Legolas had no trouble 
guessing what it was. *By the Valar, why did I not wait for Gimli! This creature 
knows the hearts of elves well!*

His only chance was to keep the man back, Legolas realized, as he and Disaran 
circled each other warily. Disaran lunged forward, aiming simply to touch 
Legolas with the weapon, and the elf leapt away while swiping at the man’s arm. 
Disaran kept grinning, keeping the elf’s back to the Houses of Healing with 
nowhere to run.

***

Aragorn did not think he had run so fast in his entire life. Thranduil kept pace 
with him easily, and they wheeled around a corner onto the street that ended in 
the Houses of Healing. Lightning flashed and they came close to the building 
just as Gimli reached it. Somehow he had been left behind by Legolas and the 
other man. Lightning flashed again…

***

Legolas slashed open the sleeve of Disaran’s jerkin as the man came at him 
again, trying in vain to pass him and run for safety. He heard shouts behind the 
man and cried, “Gimli!” knowing the dwarf could end this fight at once. Disaran 
faltered and glanced behind him--immediately, Legolas surged forward, his long 
knife ready to end this creature’s career once and for all. But then the man had 
expected the move and dodged to one side, seized Legolas’s wrist, and before the 
elf could react or even call out, what felt like a piece of black ice came into 
contact with his skin.

A shock of terrible cold seemed to surge through him, followed closely by a wave 
of weakness. With a gasp, Legolas staggered, and his hand lost its grip on the 
knife. Disoriented, he tried to strike with his other knife, but Disaran swung 
around behind him, getting an arm around his chest, and pressing the stone 
against the base of his neck, just below the collarbone. It was so cold… With a 
gasping moan, Legolas felt the strength draining from him, and the other knife 
slid from his fingers as he squirmed weakly in a vain effort to get away. *Fight 
it, fight it!* his mind cried in panic, but his body was losing the ability to 
obey.

A terrible leaden weakness was coming over his limbs. So heavy…it was growing 
hard to breathe. Dying in battle was an eventuality Legolas was prepared for; he 
was a warrior, after all. But this…to perish this way…*No! Fight it…* Legolas’s 
attempts to pull away were met with a tightening of the iron grip around his 
chest and cruel laughter in his ear. So heavy…so tired…his head lolled forward. 
He had lost all sense of time and where he was. His body sagged against 
Disaran’s grip. His heart was losing the strength to beat anymore. Only 
Disaran’s hold prevented him from sagging to the ground. So heavy…so heavy…he 
was dying.

*No! A Valar! Gimli! Aragorn! Father! Help me!* Legolas had never felt so 
helpless in his life. *Someone help me!*

***

The lightning revealed a man in the garb of a White Company soldier, with 
Legolas pinned in a terrible embrace and a black stone pressed against the elf’s 
chest that had begun to glow with its own dark fire. “NO!” Aragorn cried, as he 
and Gimli rushed Disaran.

Those last few strides to his trapped friend seemed to last an eternity. 
Legolas’s eyes were glassy, and utterly terrified. His knives lay upon the 
ground, and Aragorn could see him going limp. “Legolas!” 

He and Gimli both reached the elf and his attacker at the same time, but Disaran 
waited until then to drop the elf. The moment his grip was released, Legolas 
fell like a marionette with its strings cut. Aragorn caught him, and with a 
bellow of rage, Gimli charged after the fleeing Disaran. “Gimli,” Legolas said 
weakly.

“Gimli, wait!” Aragorn shouted, but turned desperately to Legolas. Thranduil had 
frozen in his tracks, staring at his stricken son in mute horror. But Aragorn 
had eyes only for Legolas.

“Aragorn?” whispered the elf. His breathing was labored, and his pulse was 
weakening fast.

“Hold on, Legolas!” the King of Gondor whispered desperately, cradling his 
friend in his arms. *Valar, no! I cannot lose you! Not now, not like this!* 
“Please, you must stay with me…no…”

“Gimli,” Legolas moaned, the life flowing out of him.

“Legolas? Legolas!” Aragorn looked around frantically, trying to think of some 
way to help him. But there was no wound upon him, no mark of the evil spell the 
black stone had inflicted--how could he heal his friend when there was no 
visible injury? The guards were catching up with them by then, and the King of 
Gondor cried out, “Gandalf! Send for Gandalf from Ithilien! At once!” One of the 
men bolted. “Legolas,” he pleaded. “You must hold on.”

The elf was beyond hearing, his eyes, half-focused and fearful, staring at the 
stars through a break in the clouds. His body was so limp, and beginning to grow 
cold. *No. No! NO!!! Legolas! It cannot be this way! Not you! Valar, please 
fight!* The terror in his friend’s eyes burned Aragorn like a brand as they 
drifted closed. As though summoning the last of his strength, Legolas sucked in 
another breath. “Gimli,” he sighed, the air leaving his body.

He breathed no more. 

“Legolas,” whispered Aragorn, shaking his friend weakly. *By the Valar, this 
cannot be happening!* He cradled the elf against his chest, his mind feeling 
sluggish, unable to comprehend what had happened. It had all happened so fast! 
“Legolas…”

***

Gimli thundered after the fleeing Disaran, rage searing through him at the 
vicious attack upon his friend, and for the fear he had visited upon all the 
elves. No people deserved to be stalked in such a fashion! Disaran had a good 
lead, and was pulling further away, but lightning flashed and suddenly he 
skidded to a stop. Gimli heard guards coming down the street from the other end.

Drawing a sword, the man spun and charged Gimli, obviously hoping to get past 
him to freedom. *So this creature may know the fighting ways of the elves, but 
he will not get past a dwarf!* Gimli thought, readying his axe. 

It was a fact shown all too clearly, for Disaran came at Gimli with the same 
sort of moves Legolas liked to use when he and Gimli sparred, but not nearly so 
much finesse. Dodging a wild swing of the sword, Gimli slammed the shaft of his 
axe into the man’s side, earning a grunt of surprised pain, and Disaran 
staggered. Whirling behind him, Gimli struck him again in the back of the head, 
dropping him to the ground in a stunned heap.

“Thought you were attacking just any old elf, weren’t you, villain?” growled 
Gimli. “Well, this elf is the friend of a dwarf who does not take kindly to 
attempts to murder him!” He waited until the guards arrived and kicked the black 
stone from Disaran’s hand. The man attempted to grab it, but Gimli kicked it 
away, sending it skittering across the paving stones. “You shall never use that 
accursed thing again! Bring this creature; the King shall decide his fate. Do 
not touch that stone! Keep it for Aragorn to examine!”

With that, he stalked back to the Houses of Healing, where Aragorn had been 
seeing to the wounded Legolas. Coming around the corner, he froze in his tracks. 
The alley was now lit by many torches, and some of the guards surrounding the 
scene had tears in their eyes. Gimli pushed through them frantically; Legolas 
must have taken a grievous hurt. What he saw shook him to the very core of his 
being.

King Thranduil stood in the same spot he had been when Gimli had charged after 
Disaran, apparently not having moved an inch. His hands hung slack at his side, 
and he did not seem to notice Gimli at all, having eyes only for the two people 
on the ground before the Houses of Healing. Why had Aragorn not taken Legolas 
inside, the dwarf wondered.

Aragorn, who had been staring down at Legolas’s face, looked up suddenly at 
Gimli. The King of Gondor’s eyes were dull, his face listless. Gimli slowed his 
approach, staring, unable to believe his eyes, at the form cradled in Aragorn’s 
arms.

Legolas was so still. He lay in the King’s arms, his eyes closed like a mortal 
asleep, but somehow this was different. It was very odd, for even when his 
friend slept, there always seemed to be such life about him, as though the very 
air danced in the presence of one of the Eldar. Now there was not a flicker of 
movement, and the light that always seemed to surround him was gone.

No. Gimli could not believe it. He could not comprehend it. It did not seem 
possible. Legolas was immortal! It could not be possible! His friend was 
supposed to outlive him! It was a knowledge Gimli had always lived with, always 
taken comfort in! How could this be?

Yet it was so…

The elf was dead.

*****
To be continued
*****

(Sniff!) I…can…not…believe…I…really…did it! (SOB!)

-----------------------------------------------------------
RESPONSE to questions: I don’t know if Celeborn and Galadriel ever had a son. I 
made up the one in this story. Some theories have Amroth of Lorien (remember the 
Lay of Nimrodel) as their son, but it’s not certain. For the purposes of this 
fic, Celeborn and Galadriel had two children: Celebrian, their daughter who went 
on to marry Elrond (that’s canon) and Indoran, a younger son who was killed by 
Disaran (entirely made up.)

In response to all who have threatened me with grievous bodily harm, blame 
Thundera Tiger! (Laugh) Yes that’s right, Tiger, you are officially in the 
inspiration hall of fame. I got to thinking after reading “Reflections in the 
Dark,” how would Gimli and company react to Legolas’s death? That little 
daydream turned into a ravenous, slavering plot-bunny with fangs, and the rest 
is history. Your fault! All your fault!

Here we go everyone, Chapter Two. I assure you there will be much more to this 
fic than just death and grief. I hope you’ll all give it a chance before you 
kill me. But I warn you: this chapter made ME cry!


Chapter Two: Shock

Imladris, the year 275 of the Third Age…

The child had escaped her tutors again, fleeing the Last Homely House in a 
gleeful sprint that carried her all the way to the banks of the Bruinen. There 
she played, knowing it was useless to hide, since it was only a matter of time 
before she was discovered by the elves sent to fetch her. Instead, she bided 
what free time she had bought herself, prancing in and out of the water in 
typical high spirits of elven children, singing carelessly to herself.

A twig snapped. The child turned around curiously, but saw no one. How very odd. 
She had the distinct impression that she was being watched. With a sigh, she 
supposed that the tutors had finally found her and that she would soon be back 
in the schoolroom enduring a good scolding, but no one revealed themself. Come 
to think of it, she had had this sensation for the last few days. But she had 
been in the world only thirty-four years, and so the thought that this 
mysterious watcher might bare her any menace was utterly beyond her imagining.

There came another sound, and the girl spun around with a giggle, intent on 
discovering the identity of whoever spied on her. Her laughter stopped short 
when she beheld the figure behind her. A few paces down the riverbank stood a 
man, one of the first men the child had ever seen--and the very first who was 
not introduced to her as a guest of her father. He stood very still, having come 
from the trees where he had apparently been watching her for some time. He made 
no move and spoke no word, but simply watched her.

For the first time in her young life, a little prickle of fear ran through the 
child. “Who--who are you?” she asked nervously, looking around and hoping now 
that her tutor’s had at last caught up with her. 

The man merely smiled. 

“What do you want?”

His smile grew broader, and even in her youth the child recognized the evil 
intentions in his gaze. She began to back along the riverbank, and her heart 
sprang to her throat as he slowly, tauntingly began to match her steps. 

“Go away!” she cried. “You are a trespasser on these lands!”

Now the man laughed, and never had she heard the sound so fouled. His steps 
quickened along with the child’s breath as terror began to race through her. She 
carried no weapon and could see nothing on the riverbank that might aid her, not 
even a hard stone. The man, on the other hand, did hold a stone, a stone that 
shone black like obsidian. What it was she knew not, and instinctively, she 
feared it as well as him. “Help!” she screamed, sobs of panic tearing at her 
throat. “Someone help!”

She stumbled as she turned to run, hearing the man’s laughter and quickening 
steps behind her, but then there was the sound of crashing through the brush, 
and an elf burst out of the trees. The child sobbed with relief; her tutor must 
have heard her cries and run off the path to reach her more swiftly. The elder 
elf, Laegnan, did not pause, but sprang between the child and her attacker, 
though he too had come out of doors without any weapon.

The girl’s relief did not last long, for the man hardly hesitated, but lunged at 
her tutor even as she screamed again. Now Laegnan was an elder among her 
household, but hardly lacking in strength or skill. Yet even as he struck back 
at the man to defend himself and his young charge, the mortal assailant seized 
him and subdued him, pressing the black stone to his neck. “Fly, child!” Laegnan 
cried to the girl as the man pressed his attack, and the girl fled in terror 
into the trees. Behind her, she heard Laegnan’s voice, sounding strangely weak, 
as he called after her, “Warn your father, Undómiel!”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

The darkened, sleepy streets of Minas Tirith that surrounded the Houses of 
Healing were suddenly wrenched awake by a dwarven howl of grief and rage, so 
loud that lamps were lit in haste and windows flew open everywhere. Soon the 
people of Minas Tirith were pouring into the streets, trying to find the source 
of the noise and adding to the commotion of the already-raised guards. Those who 
heard it most clearly would later say they had not heard a noise so terrifying 
since the War of the Ring, and had been convinced the White City was being 
invaded. 

But others said they had never heard a voice so filled with anguish.

***

The Queen of Gondor sat in a quiet sitting room within the Halls of Kings with 
Lady Eowyn and the hobbits, surrounded by over a dozen guards. Her husband, 
brothers, and the elven lords had been a little less than forthcoming about 
whatever danger had entered Minas Tirith, and they had all rushed off, with 
Aragorn promising to relate it to her as soon as he returned.

However, that was scant consolation now. Arwen was so tense she thought she 
would scream, and the anxiety on the faces of the hobbits hurt her heart; it 
reminded her of the fear-filled days of the War of the Ring, and Iluvatar knew 
Frodo needed no such reminders.

Eowyn stood by the window, trying to see the streets. “Something is wrong.”

Arwen looked at her in confusion, “I think we have already apprehended that 
much, Lady.”

“Nay, my Queen, I meant something else is wrong,” Eowyn turned from the window, 
and one look at the Lady of Ithilien’s eyes brought Arwen to her feet and 
running to the window.

Eowyn was right. The courtyard looked as if a swarm of hornets had attacked; 
people were racing to and fro, soldiers and civilians alike, and…her heart 
froze…some were weeping. “Valar,” she whispered. “What has happened?”

“Guard!” Eowyn barked. Arwen turned as one of the soldiers came swiftly to their 
side. “Send to Lord Faramir at once that the Queen wishes to know what has 
transpired. If he cannot be disturbed, then find out for yourself!” 

“Yes, my lady!” the guard saluted and hurried out.

Arwen quashed a surge of envy. While the guards looked upon her, their queen, 
with reverence and awe, and never hesitated to obey any command she issued, 
there was a respect in their eyes for Lady Eowyn that one could not help 
noticing. Their response to Arwen seemed properly deferential, and awestruck by 
her beauty, but for Eowyn it seemed more substantial, as though the guards 
recognized her as their equal in all things, including ability to defend herself 
and her people if necessary. Arwen was a Queen to be adored and protected in 
their eyes, but they all knew Eowyn could hold her own.

That fact was frustrating because Arwen could take care of herself. But the 
duties of the queenship made it impossible for her to practice with weapons as 
much as Eowyn did, and even less to demonstrate them, not that she was unskilled 
with them by any means. Aragorn occasionally indulged her with a sparring match, 
but Arwen knew he pulled his blows (still, she forgave him it, for he would most 
likely trounce her.) 

She and Eowyn spent much time in each other’s company as was proper when Faramir 
was in Minas Tirith. It was obvious that Eowyn and Faramir loved each other 
utterly, proven by how often Eowyn accompanied him, and Arwen did not feel 
threatened by the Lady at all. Still, there was an awkwardness, that Arwen knew 
came from Eowyn’s deference to her, and from Arwen’s own somewhat irrational 
envy. *I should simply ask her to instruct me. Aragorn and Faramir are often 
busy, and time would go more quickly by us practicing at swords and bow than 
sitting and embroidering.* Arwen understood that certain tasks were considered 
more appropriate for a queen than others, and indeed she enjoyed so-called 
“womanly” activities…yet the problem with all of them was that they left her 
mind far too free to wander to all the cares of the world.

*Any who thought life would be free of anxieties and troubles after the War were 
sadly mistaken,* she thought, suppressing a sigh. That was the greatest reason 
she had lately come to prefer practice at weapons to still, quiet tasks. They 
took her mind off all the worries that seemed to constantly occupy it.

Her musings were interrupted by the return of the guard, looking anguished. 
“Forgive me, Lady. Lord Faramir bids you remain within the Halls. There is great 
danger without.” He had nothing more to impart to them.

Arwen dismissed him, and looked at Eowyn, her heart pounding. “Something grave 
has happened of which he will not speak.”

“Or has been ordered not to, more likely,” whispered Eowyn. Her voice was filled 
with dread. There had been tears in the man’s eyes.

Arwen looked out the window once more. People were sobbing in the streets now. 
*Estel…has something happened to Estel? Surely if he were…if he were well, he 
would order the guards to inform me!* That thought did it. She whirled and 
snapped to a servant, “Bring me a cloak and a belt!”

“My Queen, the Steward ordered that you be guarded within the palace--” 
protested a guard.

“And now I, your Queen, order you to stand aside, for I am going to find my 
lord!” retorted Arwen. This promised to be an ill meeting no matter what. If 
something dreadful had happened to her husband, she knew not what she would do. 
On the other hand, if Estel had indeed ordered that she be kept in ignorance of 
some dreadful tidings out of some misguided protectiveness, she would blister 
his ears later! She swept into the cloak the servant brought and girded on a 
sword.

Eowyn had watched the exchange briefly, then said to the servant, “Bring one for 
me as well.” Arwen turned to her, and the Lady of Ithilien said with a small, 
humorless smile, “I may not be able to prevent your going, but you shall not 
venture out alone.”

“Nay, Lady!” added Merry and Pippin fiercely, going for their swords and 
shields. “The King would never forgive us if anything happened to you! We’ll 
come as well, and meet death before you meet harm!”

Despite her anxiety, Arwen smiled at their fierceness. Frodo and Sam also went 
looking for weapons, but Arwen told them, “Nay, Frodo and Samwise, you remain 
here. Eowyn, Merry, and Pippin are more than enough escort to deal with any 
threat. Stay in case anyone returns and wishes to know where we are gone.”

Frodo and Sam exchanged a glance, then nodded. “As you wish, my Lady,” said 
Frodo, his face pale with worry.

“An escort for the Queen!” ordered Eowyn as Arwen headed for the door. Six more 
guards fell into step surrounding them as they strode out of the Halls and down 
the steps.

Eowyn and the hobbits had their swords drawn, flanking Arwen and looking sharply 
about for anything that might threaten their Queen. Gasps and soft cries rang 
out from the people that saw them pass. Arwen had no difficulty determining 
which direction to go, for a steady stream of people were moving toward the 
Houses of Healing. As they drew nearer, the people who turned and saw her began 
to weep, and avoided her gaze as though the sight of her anguished them still 
more.

*Estel…something has happened to Estel,* she thought, her mind wild with terror. 
Abandoning all pretense, Arwen broke into a run.

The wild wind whipped her hair and her cloak, and only Eowyn’s hand stopped her 
from rushing ahead of the escort. Merry and Pippin ran ahead of them, ordering 
all to “Make way for the Queen!” Their voices betrayed their fear, for they too 
had heard the tears of the people.

The crowd parted before them as they neared the Houses of Healing, and Arwen 
came to a halt, her heart in her throat.

*No…*

Aragorn was unhurt. But it was small consolation, for the scene before the Queen 
of Gondor was no less devastating. Her husband did not look up at her arrival, 
but stared down at the limp form cradled against his chest. Legolas. The elf’s 
eyes were closed, but there was no peace upon his face. Something in his still, 
pale countenance seemed to suggest that darkness had come over him in a state of 
intense fear. Arwen stared, trembling slightly, at the motionless body of 
Legolas, the dear young warrior who had been her friend and a friend to her 
brothers for so many centuries. His light was gone. His warmth was gone. 

Legolas was gone.

A barely-stifled sob from just behind awoke her. Eowyn’s hands were covering her 
mouth, and tears streamed down her face. She had come to know Legolas well in 
the past two years during the rebuilding of Ithilien. His loss would be a 
crushing blow to her and to her husband. In front of Arwen, Merry and Pippin too 
had frozen in their tracks. Not a sound came from either one. The only sound 
here in this place of death was the soft weeping of the people who had come out 
to determine the cause of all the commotion.

Arwen swallowed hard, fighting back a scream of anguish that tried to force its 
way from her throat. How had this happened? How now, after Legolas had survived 
the War of the Ring with barely a mark to his body, how now could he be cut 
down? She saw no blood, no wound that could fell an elf. How? How could this be?

*Why? WHY?!*

She had been holding her breath. It forced her to inhale again suddenly, and 
Aragorn looked up. His eyes, always so warm and steadfast, now seemed as dead as 
the elf who lay in his arms. So hopeless, so lost. He who had saved so many 
lives, including many of the folk who surrounded him now, had been unable to 
save one of his oldest and closest friends. The hands of the king were the hands 
of a healer, but not this time. He could not save Legolas.

Arwen’s legs were suddenly carrying her forward. Her eyes still meeting 
Aragorn’s seeking some response, some explanation, she knelt before him. 
Something told her that Aragorn wanted to speak, but had lost the ability. She 
looked down at Legolas, and her vision suddenly blurred with tears. *Oh Legolas! 
Why?* Reaching out, she took the younger elf’s limp hand in her own and raised 
it to her cheek. It was so cold. Tears spilled from her eyes and she closed 
them, conscious of nothing but that cold hand against her face, wishing she 
could rub warmth into it again. *Oh Legolas…*

A bark of laughter made her raise her head, stunned. There against the wall 
behind Aragorn, a man stood, his hands bound, held fast by four guards, each of 
whom looked as though they desired to impale him with their swords right there. 
He was watching her with a hideous grin of twisted amusement at her grief. It 
struck her with a wave of nausea--this man had slain the elf. She was looking 
into the eyes of Legolas’s murderer!

With a gasp of horror, fighting her heaving stomach, Arwen looked away, and 
jumped at the sound of a dwarven roar of rage. She looked up again, her mind 
moving too slowly to process all that was happening; she had not noticed Gimli. 
Legolas’s best friend launched himself at the killer, ripping him from the 
guards and pummeling him with his fists, looking to finish him then and there. 
Aragorn did not even turn around, and Arwen watched rather dispassionately.

It was Faramir, his eyes red, who finally ran over and pulled Gimli back. 
“Enough, Master Dwarf,” he cried in a voice thick with grief and anger, “it is 
not for you! This creature shall answer to all Gondor and the Eldar for this 
atrocity! He shall be made to pay!”

Somehow, the dwarf let himself be pulled back. Turning away from the elf’s 
killer, great, heaving sobs broke through the wind and the thunder as Gimli came 
to Arwen’s side, staring in disbelief at Legolas’s body. A fat drop of rain 
splattered to the paving stones. He did not speak, but simply wept, the sobs 
seeming to come from the depths of his soul. 

A drop of rain landed on the elf’s face. Arwen brushed it gently away, and 
Aragorn pulled him closer as if to shelter him. Again, it was Faramir who spoke. 
“My lord, my lady…we should not…linger here. We should…get him indoors…and these 
people back to their homes ere the storm strikes.”

There was a long silence. Then Aragorn drew in a shuddering breath, closing his 
eyes briefly. When they opened, they were just as listless as before, but this 
time with a hint of consciousness at least. Slowly, the King of Gondor rose, 
with Legolas still cradled reverently in his arms. He looked down at the elf’s 
still face for a moment, then began walking back toward the Halls of the Kings. 
Gimli stared, about to follow, then suddenly turned away and instead went to 
join Faramir, who had the unhappy task of seeing to Disaran‘s imprisonment--and 
protection from the growling mob that stood hoping the murderer might attempt to 
escape. 

Arwen suddenly found she could not get her legs back under her. She knew she 
must rise, walk at the King’s side in this procession of mourners, but she could 
not make her legs work. *I am the Queen, Aragorn’s wife. I must join him. I must 
rise!* She swallowed hard, and suddenly a hand extended to her. Looking up, she 
beheld her grandfather, Celeborn, and behind him, King Thranduil. She had not 
even known they were in Minas Tirith! Taking Celeborn’s hand, she was able to 
rise to her feet, and glanced once more at the man who had slain Thranduil’s 
son, whose removal was being seen to by Faramir and Gimli. She looked back at 
Celeborn and Thranduil, and suddenly, the truth struck her.

That was why they had come…to prevent this…Arwen stared in horror at the 
murderer, realizing for the first time who he was. His face was distorted in her 
memory, more hideous in the shadow of childhood nightmares, but now that she 
looked again, she recognized him. He was not laughing now; Gimli’s tender 
ministrations had wiped the obscene smile from his face at least. Arwen felt a 
convulsive shudder take her whole body, and then Celeborn laid his hand upon her 
shoulder and turned her away. 

***

To the right and just ahead of Celeborn, King Elessar walked back to the Halls 
of the Kings, carrying Legolas. The elven lord stared at the man, stunned by the 
effect Legolas’s death had had upon him. He had known the two were close, 
yet…Aragorn’s shoulders slumped, and he walked very slowly, as though it took 
great effort to keep himself moving at all without stumbling. Celeborn could 
just see his face, and Aragorn stared straight ahead, his eyes bleak. He looked 
at no one, not even Arwen. Celeborn had his left hand clasping hers, his right 
around her waist, leading the bereaved Queen as if she had no will to walk on 
her own. Her head hung. On the other side of Aragorn walked Merry and Pippin, 
with tears streaming down their faces. 

To Celeborn’s left was Thranduil. The elven king had not made a sound, nor shed 
a tear, nor taken his eyes from Legolas since they had come upon the dying 
prince. Celeborn found he could not look upon Thranduil for long without feeling 
the grief welling up in his own throat. *Forgive me,* he thought to his friend, 
guilt surging through him. *I tried. I came as quickly as I could. Would that I 
had been faster. I lost my son; I would have done anything in my power for 
yours. Forgive me, Thranduil. Would that I could spare you this agony.*

The people of Minas Tirith were weeping in the streets. By all accounts, Legolas 
was a regular visitor to the king, and adored for that and as an elf by the 
Gondorrim. But the Lord of Lothlorien was stunned by the intensity of the 
mortals’ grief. He did not harbor feelings quite as ill toward humans as 
Thranduil, however he still did not expect men to care so deeply for the life of 
any one elf. Yet here the people cried, and the soldiers bowed their heads, some 
saluted as the procession walked by. At last they reached the Halls of the 
Kings, and King Eomer came running down the steps, practically skidding to a 
stop when he saw Aragorn and the burden he carried. The young King of the Mark 
stared, disbelieving, and whispered softly, “No.”

Aragorn looked around, apparently uncertain of what to do. Eowyn came up then, 
touched his shoulder lightly, and motioned him toward the Silent Street, where 
the House of Kings stood, the place where the kings of Gondor had always been 
laid to rest, and where Aragorn himself would some day lie. Aragorn wavered, 
loathe to bear the elf to that place of the dead, but then Eomer came before 
him, looking first from the King of Gondor to his sister Eowyn. Though her eyes 
were spilling tears as freely as rain from the sky, she nodded to him, looking 
then to Aragorn, and Eomer turned his face as well toward the House of Kings, 
indicating again where Legolas should be taken. Slowly, Aragorn turned as though 
he had no will of his own, and carried the lifeless elf into the Silent Street.

Followed by the great stream of mourners, King Elessar brought the body of the 
son of Thranduil to the House of Kings, and carried him inside. There stood an 
empty stone table, carven exquisitely of the finest marble, meant for the bodies 
of the Kings themselves. It was a place fitting for the dearest of the King’s 
friends and one who had many times saved the King’s life. 

But Aragorn, still cradling Legolas in his arms, stared silently at the marble 
slab and would not relinquish his burden to it. His eyes strayed briefly around 
the dark House, beautiful, but cold and echoing with memories of sorrow. He 
stared again at the sepulcher, and spoke for the first time. “Legolas hates 
stone,” he murmured.

Arwen at last pulled away from Celeborn’s supportive hands, and swiftly undid 
the clasp of the heavy gray cloak that she wore, a soft and beautifully 
embroidered gift from her kindred in Imladris. Stepping past Aragorn, she laid 
the cloak across the table. Then she turned and nodded to her husband, her eyes 
downcast. With a deep, quiet sigh, Aragorn stepped forward and reverently laid 
Legolas’s body upon the cloak, gently arranging the elf’s hands upon his chest. 

It would be proper to shroud him, they all knew. Aragorn’s hands strayed to his 
own mantle, but then he faltered. His eyes took on a look of renewed horror as 
he stared at the body of his friend, the second member of the Fellowship of the 
Ring to die. With the barest shake of his head, he stepped back. He could not do 
it. He could not shroud the elf and cut him off from the world. 

There they stood, for how long no one knew, staring in endless disbelief at the 
still form lying upon the cloak of the Queen. A very soft sound of sobbing came 
from behind the King; it was either Merry or Pippin. Eowyn also stood back from 
the group, leaning slightly against Eomer who had his hands on her shoulders. 
Both had tears streaming down their faces. 

At last, Eomer squeezed Eowyn’s shoulders and she turned to look at him. He 
nodded toward the door, then to Aragorn and Arwen. Taking a ragged breath, Eowyn 
nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with little success to stop the tears. She reached 
out and touched Merry and Pippin gently, beckoning to them. The two hobbits 
looked at her in dismay, then stared back at Legolas, new despair on their 
faces. Surely they could not simply leave Legolas here in this stony tomb? After 
all they had been through…surely they could not just turn and walk away!

Eowyn stood patiently awaiting them, until the hobbits realized her intent was 
to give Aragorn, Arwen, and the elven lords time alone. Merry bowed his head and 
looked to Pippin, who stared a moment longer at Legolas, then tearfully nodded. 
The small knights of Gondor and Rohan took one last look at their fallen friend, 
their comrade in the Fellowship, and finally turned and came out of the House of 
Kings with Lady Eowyn, and King Eomer. 

Celeborn knew, watching them leave, that the time had come for him to depart as 
well, and leave Legolas among those who knew and loved him best. He too lingered 
for one last look at the young elven prince, and his vision blurred slightly as 
grief nearly overwhelmed him, grief for his own slain child and for this new 
cruel death. Grief for Indoran had led him here, desperate to prevent another 
such tragedy. 

*I failed. Forgive me, Thranduil.* The King of Eryn Lasgalen did not seem to 
notice Celeborn leaving. Celeborn suspected Thranduil did not notice anything 
other than his child lying cold upon that stone. *I know that it is so. I know 
far too well.* He looked again at Legolas from the doorway. *Fare ye well, son 
of Thranduil, Legolas of the Fellowship. May you find welcome in the Halls of 
Mandos. You at least may now know peace.* He forced himself to turn away, trying 
to think of something practical to do as he walked, slowly and rather aimlessly, 
back toward the Halls of the Kings. 

Haldir and Rumil were waiting there for news. He would tell them. He had to tell 
them, though a part of him wondered how many more horrified faces slowly turning 
to crushing grief and tears he could witness before losing his sanity. But he 
would deliver the news to them as he should, and tomorrow he would send for 
Galadriel. Yes, that was something he should do. It would be proper for her to 
be here during the mourning that was to commence for the prince of Lasgalen and 
Ithilien, the second fallen member of the Fellowship. Besides which, Celeborn 
had not realized until now how badly he desired her beside him. It would make 
the pain of what had happened, and what was to come, far easier to bear.

***

There was no one left in the House of Kings but Aragorn, Arwen, and King 
Thranduil. Not a one of them spoke. Aragorn could not seem to shake the sense of 
utter disbelief that had covered his mind in a thick shroud of fog. He stared at 
Legolas, stared hard until his eyes ached, but the elf did not awaken. How could 
this be?! Legolas was IMMORTAL, by the Valar! Aragorn was not supposed to have 
to mourn him! Of all those he held dear to his heart, the one he never feared 
losing was Legolas. The constant one was Legolas, the one member of the 
Fellowship he had known the longest, and expected to live the longest after 
Aragorn was gone, the one who would keep the memory of the War of the Ring and 
the suffering and sacrifices of them all alive. 

*Legolas! Legolas!*

The elf did not stir, did not open his eyes and scowl at Aragorn as if daring 
the King to comment on any perceived weakness. Legolas was not often injured, 
and even when he was, he tended to be downright cranky about any attempts by 
Aragorn or others to tend to him. Why did he not now sit up and grumble at them 
all that he was fine and to stop fussing over him?

*Legolas! Legolas!* 

The elf always lay so still, it took a trained eye on normal circumstances to 
see the rise and fall of his chest, and see the barely-perceptible movements 
while he slept. Aragorn was usually one of the few who could discern the faint 
motions of Legolas asleep, and even tell the mood of his elven dreams, 
but…perhaps he was deeply unconscious from Disaran’s weapon, so much that it was 
impossible to feel his heartbeat and his breath, perhaps he might yet recover…

*LEGOLAS! By the Valar, LOOK AT ME!! You cannot leave me this way! Legolas, WAKE 
UP!*

Aragorn had not realized that his heart had begun to pound as a terrible urge 
came over him to rush forward and shake the motionless elf violently until 
Legolas awoke and told Aragorn to leave off. Suddenly, something else shook 
Aragorn, and the soft sound of a stifled sob reached his ears. He had not 
realized he had his arms around Arwen, who was leaning more heavily against him 
than before. At last, he tore his eyes from the body of the elf in front of him, 
and looked at his queen. 

Arwen had begun trembling; her grief was overwhelming her. She was still an elf 
in that respect. Aragorn had to see to her. Blinking as though coming out of a 
trance, he took in his surroundings more clearly. Everyone else had gone, though 
the King of Gondor did not remember them leaving. He scarcely remembered how 
they had gotten here. Across from him, on the other side of the table bearing 
Legolas’s body, stood King Thranduil, motionless and still staring at his son.

*I should leave him alone. He will wish to be with Legolas in private. I must 
take Arwen home.* Aragorn shook his head to himself, and gazed at his friend 
once more. *I shall return soon, Legolas. Gandalf will be here as well, and we 
shall find a way to restore you. I will not leave you like this.*

For the first time, Thranduil actually looked at Aragorn as the King of Gondor 
took a quiet step forward, gently covering Legolas’s hand with his own for a 
brief second. Then Aragorn put his arm around Arwen and guided her from the 
House of Kings, leaving the elven king of Eryn Lasgalen alone.

***

Frodo and Sam waited in the room where Arwen had left them for what felt like 
hours. They had been forced to calm a nearly-hysterical pair of elven twins when 
Elladan and Elrohir discovered that their sister had raced out into the streets 
to find out what had happened. Only after hearing that Eowyn, Merry and Pippin, 
and six guards had accompanied her did they cease their attempts to charge out 
after her. After all, Sam had told them, it would not do to have every elf in 
Gondor running about when there was a madman on the loose.

So the four had remained together, tense and anxious, awaiting news. And they 
got it much sooner than any of them would have liked.

The sound of an outer door opening, and the blast of rain and wind down the 
hall, brought all of them to their feet, and moments later, Merry and Pippin 
came through the door, joined by King Eomer and the Lady Eowyn. Arwen was 
nowhere in sight.

Elladan and Elrohir chorused, “Where is my--” before getting a close enough look 
at the faces of the four new arrivals. They broke off their demands. 

Frodo’s heart went to his throat. “What’s happened?” whispered Sam, putting a 
fearful hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

The stain of many hard-shed tears on the faces of all brought renewed terror to 
the two hobbits and elves. Frodo voiced the question that was foremost on every 
mind. “Who’s dead?” he asked softly, knowing that was the only explanation.

Eomer tried to speak, but his voice failed him before he could get a word out, 
and Eowyn covered her mouth to avoid a new flood of sobs. Choking back a fearful 
cry of his own, Elladan crossed the floor to Eomer and gripped his shoulders. 
“Is my sister safe?” he asked desperately, tears already springing into his 
eyes.

Eomer nodded. “It’s the King then,” gasped Sam. But then Merry shook his head, 
and Pippin began to sob again.

They all seemed so confused, thought Frodo, as if they themselves couldn’t quite 
believe it. But if not Arwen or Aragorn, then who? Merry and Pippin, Eowyn and 
Eomer would not cry so unless it was someone they all knew and loved. Faramir? 
No, Eowyn would not be here at all if he had fallen. And the man whom Lord 
Celeborn and King Thranduil had been so afraid of before was hunting elves--

Elves.

For a moment, Frodo was certain his heart had stopped altogether. It must have 
showed, for Sam turned anxiously to him, “Mr. Frodo?”

Gimli was not here. Nor was Aragorn, nor any of the other elves who had been 
abroad this night. Frodo’s throat closed with fear, and now a surge of despair 
as he met Eowyn’s tear-filled eyes. “Legolas,“ he whispered. “It’s Legolas, 
isn’t it?”

Sam, Elladan, and Elrohir looked at Frodo in surprise then; obviously, the idea 
seemed absurd to them, after all, Legolas was--then they looked back at the 
others. Merry squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands, and Eomer 
nearly had to grab his sister to stop her from falling to her knees as she too 
crumbled with tears. None of them seemed able to bring their grief under 
control, but then Pippin suddenly looked up, his red eyes meeting Frodo’s…and 
slowly nodded.

“What?!” cried Sam, his hands coming halfway to his face but stopping, clenching 
repeatedly to fists in disbelief. “But…but…that’s impossible! Mr. Legolas…I 
mean…he…he can’t…he just CAN’T!”

“Eomer?” whispered Elrohir, tears in his voice. The King of the Mark, his arms 
around his sobbing sister, looked up at the elf and nodded also. Elrohir 
swallowed hard. “The Hunter?”

This time, it was Eowyn who nodded. “Oh no, no,” murmured Sam.

The sons of Elrond stepped back then. Elladan was still staring at nothing in 
disbelief, and Elrohir bowed his head, bringing his hands to his face. His 
shoulders began quaking in silent, deep sobs. Frodo felt as if some deep, hidden 
pool of water inside had suddenly begun to boil and rise up within him, hot and 
powerful in its pain. *Legolas! How?* He felt Sam’s hands on his shoulders, 
guiding him to sink into a chair, and his head sank against his hand, too heavy 
to be upright on its own. *Legolas!*

Sam was crying openly now, sitting in the nearest chair. “Oh, Mr. Frodo, I just 
don’t know how to make sense of it! How could Legolas of all people fall? Now, 
after the war! It doesn’t make any ruddy sense!”

Eowyn and Eomer had gone, but Merry and Pippin were still there. “It w-was that 
c-cursed Hunter, all right,” said Pippin, choking through his sobs. “I saw him, 
s-standing there, laughing at us all, and Legolas too! S-Strider was holding 
him, but it was too late!” The youngest of the hobbits could barely speak for 
weeping. “It’s not right! The way he looked; he must have been s-so afraid when 
he…I h-haven’t seen anything so awful since Bor--” he buried his face in his 
hands again. “It wasn’t right! Dying that way…”

Hiccupping on his own sobs, Sam whispered, “Poor Legolas. The next… I never 
imagined it would be him.”

“None of us did,” murmured Frodo, not noticing the tears sliding freely down his 
own face. He could not see his friends anymore, only Legolas. The strange elf 
clad in green and brown at Elrond’s council, the sound of his sweet voice raised 
in song around campfires and in the halls of Minas Tirith, the brightness of his 
grey eyes, both old and young, both wise and mischievous, both gentle and hard. 
The clear, ringing sound of his laughter, almost like the wind in the branches 
of the forests, or the song of a bird in the trees, whenever Legolas had been 
sparring with Aragorn--*funny, he laughed whether he won or lost*, thought the 
hobbit--or verbally sparring with Gimli--oh! A low moan of renewed anguish and 
horror rose from Frodo, and the others looked worriedly at him. Choking back 
harder sobs than ever as the full weight of the elf’s loss and what if would 
mean to every single one of them, sank in. Looking tearfully at the others, 
Frodo cried out, “Gimli! Poor Gimli…”

***

Gimli watched, his arms folded tightly, as the White Company guards 
none-too-gently threw Disaran into a cell and slammed the metal bars shut behind 
him. The man, sprawled upon the dirty straw on the floor, looked up at them. He 
was no longer laughing at them (probably still catching his breath from their 
lack of gentle handling, but Gimli cared not.) Faramir had carefully donned 
gloves and transferred the black stone to a pouch. “I will take it to King 
Elessar,” he said roughly. “If there is anything to be learnt from it, he or 
Mithrandir or perhaps one of the elven lords may know.” He sighed and rubbed his 
eyes; they were very red and tired, but the Prince of Ithilien had kept himself 
under control. He looked wearily at Gimli, “They will have taken him to the 
House of Kings. Aragorn said from the beginning that he wanted that much for 
every member of the Fellowship. You should not linger here, Gimli. Go to them.”

Gimli sighed himself, and nodded. It was growing hard to keep his mind occupied 
with the matter of Disaran. Soon it would be forced to turn to the reason 
Disaran was here…narrowing his eyes once more at the Black Hunter, Gimli 
growled, “Pray tonight, villain! Pray that someone here in this city learns a 
way to reverse what you have done to Legolas. Or by Aule’s rule, you shall 
scream for death and curse your greed for immortality before I am done with 
you!” With that, he turned and marched out. Faramir moved more slowly, and made 
no effort to keep up.

The rain was coming down in sheets as Gimli trudged his way past the Halls of 
the Kings toward the Silent Street. Few people lingered out of doors now; it was 
simply too wet. Nonetheless, Gimli felt irrational anger at this: did not they 
realize that a member of the Fellowship had just been murdered?! Did not they 
care about the heroism of the elf on their behalf, when scarcely a one of other 
members of his race had joined in the War of the Ring? 

*Many nights of rain, wind, and worse, Legolas kept watch for you!* Gimli’s mind 
railed at the ungrateful Gondorrim. *Why now do you not do the same for him?* 

He was drawing nigh upon the House of Kings when he suddenly stopped. What would 
he see when he went in there? His mind was both slowing down from the adrenaline 
rush of manhandling the villain into prison, and speeding up with the utter 
horror of what had happened here tonight.

*Legolas. Legolas! LEGOLAS!!!* The elf’s name was like a growing scream in 
Gimli’s mind, echoing round and round, louder and louder, until the dwarf wanted 
to clap his hands over the sides of his head and howl to the heavens. Pain, pain 
like he had never felt before ripped through him, but he found he could not cry 
out. *Oh Legolas, it hurts! You must live! I cannot exist in the face of such 
pain! I cannot endure it!*

In his mind’s ears, the elf’s name crescendoed mercilessly, and in his mind’s 
eye, the elf’s face swam, laughing, irritated, forlorn, thoughtful, all those 
odd, controlled yet so revealing elvish expressions that Gimli had learned to 
read so well. Every aspect of the elf’s personality bombarded Gimli’s memory, 
tormenting him with each detail, so vivid, so…alive! That overly embellished 
turn of phrase, his frustratingly vague explanations, and infuriating elvish 
smugness--*Legolas! Legolas!*

A sound drifting through the wind and rain brought Gimli’s mental hysterics to 
an abrupt halt, and almost his heart as well. From within the House of Kings 
came a single voice raised in a low, mournful song. For a moment, Gimli was 
certain it was Legolas he heard. And that voice was his, and yet…not. It was of 
a slightly deeper timbre, and terribly beautiful, yet filled with a grief that 
Gimli could not even imagine in Legolas’s voice. He listened, feeling his 
insides twist and his body shake. His elvish was still less than perfect 
(considerably less, according to Legolas) but Gimli could make out some of the 
words. The song was an elvish lament. 

Slipping automatically into light, cautious steps so that he walked in a 
stealthy fashion taught to him by Legolas (*“It is no good sneaking up on orcs 
if they hear you stomping from a mile away, Master Dwarf!”*), Gimli cautiously 
approached the door of the House of Kings.

The elf whose voice was singing could not possibly have heard Gimli breathing 
this time, for the minute the dwarf’s eyes peered through the threshold, his 
breath stopped. 

The form lying upon a gray cloak atop the sepulcher seemed unreal as could be. 
How could it be real? This was not to be! He was not meant to be dead, to lie 
here still and silent while all who loved him wept and sang laments. He was 
meant to be alive, to laugh and to sing and to walk beneath the trees and to 
fight and to run and to ride and one day to sail away over the sea to the 
Undying Lands and live eternally in bliss and peace carrying with him the 
memories and hopes of all his friends--NOT DEAD! 

*Legolas!* 

But upon the soft elven cloak covering the cold stone, the pale figure lying in 
state did not stir amid the anguished mental cries of his friend. Legolas looked 
cold even from this distance, and starkly pale. The soft flush of light and 
laughter that always seemed to color his cheeks was gone. The brilliance of his 
grey eyes was cut off from the world beneath a curtain of dark lashes. Though 
Gimli desperately willed them open, not once did they flutter. So still…it was 
not right that any elf should be so still, so devoid of life. Elves WERE life! 
The Eldar race might be fading, but to look at a single elf, especially Legolas, 
one might not know it. The air seemed to sparkle around them as if the world 
recognized a true friend in each of them. They were a part of the earth, the 
sky, the stars. Eternally alive. Not dead.

Gimli’s body had had enough of holding its breath, and the dwarf gasped 
involuntarily. Immediately, the song ceased and the singer looked up at the 
intruder. Their eyes met, and Gimli stared at Thranduil, Legolas’s father. The 
elven king of Mirkwood gazed back at him, a strange dullness in his own eyes. 
Had Gimli had a chance to look closely at Thranduil before his son’s life was 
stolen, he might have noted a similarity between the eyes of Legolas and his 
father. But even at the worst of times during the War of the Ring and its bitter 
aftermath, when Gimli accompanied the elf home to find much of Mirkwood 
devastated by battle and fire, Legolas’s eyes had never seemed so haunted by 
death.

Yet in the eyes of this elven king, Gimli could see nothing but death. The dwarf 
did not speak. Neither did the elder elf. The body of Legolas lay between them 
as their eyes remained locked, each one waiting. What sort of an exchange would 
follow, neither could be sure, but one thing both of them knew: there was much 
to be said.

***

Eowyn had declined her brother’s offer to remain with her until her husband 
returned. Though Eomer, still accustomed to the self-appointed responsibilities 
of elder brotherhood, had attempted to hover over her longer, she had at last 
dismissed him rather irately. Then she sat, very still and quiet, in a chair in 
her chamber, waiting for Faramir.

She felt she had no tears left to cry, yet the anguish still churned and welled 
up within her, until she wanted to fling herself against the window and scream 
hysterically into the night. How could this have happened? 

Legolas and Faramir had worked so hard, and so closely in Ithilien, that Eowyn 
saw him almost every week. She had liked the elven prince almost from the moment 
she met him, since unlike the men she knew, who viewed her taste in warfare with 
first surprise then some measure of disapproval, Legolas had accepted her 
immediately and matter-of-factly for what she was. She herself had been 
surprised, until some of the elf’s kindred rode to join him in Ithilien, and she 
discovered that the warrior’s craft was permitted and lauded among elven women. 
How she had envied them, and it may well have been their proximity to the elven 
colony and its warrior and warrioress guards that had made it so easy for her to 
keep up her own skill at arms in Emyn Arnen. 

Eowyn’s husband had found a true friend in Legolas, and the two often rode 
together abroad in Ithilien, leading elven and Gondorrim scouts. On other 
occasions they spent hours spreading maps of the lands and drawings of planned 
buildings over tabletops and muttering amongst themselves and their captains 
with the occasional burst of laughter in that irritatingly “male” way. Ithilien 
had swiftly become a joint venture of Gondor and the Eldar, and it seemed 
impossible to imagine it without Legolas.

*Legolas!* The elf’s friendly smile, his cordial bow, his respectful and 
appreciative grey eyes watching her spar tormented Eowyn, and she looked down to 
discover that her hands were clenched so tight that the nails were biting into 
her skin. How could this have happened? Faramir had not even had a chance to 
tell her why the elven lords had arrived before the hue and cry erupted in the 
city, and then…then…Legolas was dead! How? How? How could the same elf who 
regularly thrashed Faramir in sparring matches be so swiftly cut down by a 
marauder in the street? Who was that man who had slain him? Did he know who it 
was he had robbed from the world? Had he singled out Legolas for some 
as-yet-unrevealed reason?

*Why? WHY?!*

Just as Eowyn was on the brink of collapsing in another fit of hysteria, the 
door opened. She leapt to her feet. It was Faramir.

Her husband trudged into their chamber, drenched from head to toe, his hair 
straggling and dripping, his boots tracking mud in a fashion that Eowyn would 
normally scold him furiously for. But not tonight. His eyes were downcast, and 
wind, rain, and grief had scoured all color from his face. He had not wept 
before in the alley, and seemed still silent in his grief even as Eowyn rose to 
greet him, her hands tightly knotted. 

He suddenly looked up, and their eyes met. Faramir stared at Eowyn, and she saw 
him waver. The façade of composure upon his face slowly crumpled into an anguish 
as deep as she had ever seen. She had not known him when his brother fell, but 
something told Eowyn that the younger son of Denethor must have looked then just 
as he looked now. Tears leaked from his eyelids, squeezed tightly shut, and with 
a great, shuddering sob, he sank to his knees.

Eowyn knelt with him, wrapping him in her arms, and his face was soon buried 
into her shoulder as he wept deep and hard. She wept as well into his soaked 
hair, feeling him shiver with cold and anguish. “Oh, why?” Faramir sobbed, not 
raising his face from her arms. “I can-not understand! Why? Of all 
people--Legolas--how could he? The least deserving of such a cruel, lonely 
fate!”

Sobs burst anew from Eowyn, as they sat together upon the floor of their room 
with the rain pounding against the window, water from Faramir’s garments soaking 
into her own. “I shall miss him so,” she wept. “Ithilien will not be the same 
without him.” Long they cried, helpless to stem the dreadful tide of grief and 
shock, until at last their strength was gone and they clung to each other simply 
to stay upright. “Oh Faramir,” she whispered. “What happens now?”

Catching his breath, gazing at her through the tears in his eyes, Faramir 
replied softly, “I do not know.”


PLEASE don’t forget to review! 
-----------------------------------------------------------
 
Special Thanks: To everyone on various LOTR Yahoo Groups who answered my 
questions about elves and death, and gave me info about the Halls of Mandos. 

Credit Where Credit Is Due: In the previous chapter, Aragorn is upset about 
leaving Legolas in the House of Kings because elves hate stone. This idea 
properly deserves to be credited to Jay of Lasgalen, whose story “To the Ends of 
Middle Earth” is a masterpiece in its own right, and influenced a lot of my 
thinking while writing this fic. I don’t want to plagiarize, but I happen to 
agree with Jay’s interpretation of Legolas’s friends might feel about putting 
the elf in a tomb, so…here it is! Jay thought of it first! :-)

REVISION NOTES: There is a new flashback section in this chapter as well as 
changes here and there in the old part. Hope you like.


Chapter Three: Denial

Númenor, the year 3319 of the Second Age…

Nine ships there were: four for Elendil, and for Isildur three, for Anárion two, 
that east away from Númenor even as the great fleets of Ar-Pharazôn departed. 
For, besotted by Sauron, the King of Númenor had resolved to assail the Valar 
themselves. Even after the black Stone of Sauron had been bestowed upon him, 
Ar-Pharazôn had not been satisfied. For it was soon revealed that while the 
Stone did indeed draw the life force of its victims into the one who wielded, 
true immortality could not be achieved through its use. Only by wielding the 
Stone over and over again could the bearer hope to stave off the ailments of 
age, and while Ar-Pharazôn did use and revel in it, he desired the ultimate 
conquest: true immortality without the need for such arts.

The Eldar no longer dared to visit Númenor, even for the sake of the Faithful 
who lived in fear for their lives, for stories had reached them of elves taken 
by the soldiers of Ar-Pharazôn, never to return. Thus it was from among the 
Faithful that the Black Númenóreans chose their victims to extend the life of 
their King. The life force of a Númenórean did not grant as much strength to 
Ar-Pharazôn as the elves’ had, but this only led him to seize more men for 
sacrifice, sucking their lives away with his black stone and then flinging their 
corpses onto the fire of the altar of Melkor.

And so, in fear of the servants of Melkor and the coming vengeance of the Valar, 
the Faithful, led by Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anárion, had prepared 
their ships off the east coast of Númenor, putting board their wives and their 
children, and their heirlooms, and a great store of goods. And also aboard went 
their followers, all who still pledged fealty to Iluvatar and the Valar. But 
among them went one whose fealty reached no closer to his soul than the tip of 
his tongue, from which he spilled sweet words of loyalty and assurance to 
Elendil and his sons. Amon