The Song of a Friend

by KyMahalei

Summary: A story of wanderings, lostness and being found. Teitho Second Place Winner MEFA 2010 Honorable Mention Note: Dialogue between Aragorn and the Rangers is taken from The Grey Company in The Return of the King.

i

I was not always at this place. Faint are the images that dwell in my mind, but they are of light, of green growth, of laughter and the gentle strong embrace of safety. There is the sound of falling water, splashing into a basin. So small are these memories that they slide into my awareness only infrequently. I cannot bid them come, and they leave all too quickly.

More often come the images of darkness and fear. Intangible, but much stronger than the light. These memories swirl through my days and through my dreams. I want to run and hide, but always I am found out, and I stand helpless before the Shadow. It claims me for its own.

ii

Even the early morning daylight seemed weak and wan as they clustered within the shelter of the glen that marked the entrance to the Paths of the Dead. The creaking of the leather tack as the horses shifted nervously from one foot to the other wasn't quite loud enough to cover the sound of the Dunedain taking slow, steady breaths to ease frayed nerves. Elrohir, Elladan and Legolas remained calm, having no cause to fear the spirits of Men, but the solemn countenance on the brow of the firstborn bore witness to the gravity of the situation. Even Gimli the Dwarf was silent, showing his unease with a white knuckled grip on the handle of his axe.

"Fall in!" ordered Aragorn at last. His voice sounded dull and distant, as though sound itself must die before crossing the threshold of the dark valley. Gently he eased his mount to the head of the line and coaxed her to move forward. Murmurings of the Grey Tongue could be heard as Halbarad and the other Rangers encouraged their mounts to follow suit. The elves took up the rear of the assemblage, moving their horses without a sound. Only Legolas could be heard singing softly to his horse Arod, who was of Rohan and not trained by the elves.

The company went forward some sixty paces and then, as though stayed by some invisible hand, the horses stopped and refused to move. A steep ravine fell off to their left and the path ahead was marred by a slender pillar of obsidian rock, rugged and black, that thrust itself from the ground.

Carefully Aragorn examined the dark stone. Beyond the rock he could see the face of a cliff made of black granite, smooth and unblemished save for an enormous heavy door marked with runes and carvings of great age. Slowly, of its own volition, the door opened and a cool breeze, like the breeze that flows from deep underground caverns spilled its way towards the gathered company. Blended in the chill air was the smell of decay, of cold rotting flesh - of death.

The men kept their fear to themselves, but the horses became tense and skittish. Even the soothing voices of the Dunedain could not calm them. One by one the rangers dismounted and moved to calm the frightened creatures. Halbarad finally broke the silence. "Aragorn," he said, "the horses will not follow. We must leave them here."

Aragorn looked around the glade, as though to gather his thoughts. "There is great need for haste, Halbarad. We cannot do without the horses." He sighed and looked calmly at the members of the company; thirty of the most seasoned Rangers of the north. To a man they were well trained, well muscled. Their weather worn features bore evidence of many years of working in the wilds. Somehow it seemed incongruous that they should fear anything at all.

Aragorn knew these men almost as well as he knew himself. He looked on them with pride and gratefulness. He spoke but one word then, but it was spoken with the deep love and faith he felt for them as well as a spark of joy - the anticipation of a new adventure waiting. "Come," he said finally, meeting the eyes of his fellows with confidence.

By the strength of that single word both beast and Man took courage. Quickly the company was mounted again and slowly they moved forward.

They crossed the threshold of the Gate of the Dead in the early morning. It was not until late afternoon that they neared the end of the dark path that ran like a wound through the shoulders of the White Mountains. Throughout the day Aragorn led the company. He rode proudly, looking neither to the left nor the right but gazing ahead, discerning the path that threatened to vanish in the swirls of mist and perpetual gloom. Behind him rode Halbarad and the grey company. Behind the Men the three elves and the dwarf followed.

As they travelled their passing stirred the sleep of the dead. By ones and twos the spirits gathered. There was no speaking, but a rustling like dead leaves brushing together. In the dim light, little could be seen. There was no color, only the varied shades of grey and deep darkness. Gimli, riding behind the blond elf, was nearest the dead as they stirred. For the most part, there was only a pervasive sense of unrest, an ambiance of disquiet and darkness troubled. Occasionally, he could see glimmers of weapons and faces, mournful and hollow, as they floated behind and above the living Men. He trembled at the sight, and clung fervently to Legolas.

Unexpectedly, the dark path ended, and the party rode out into the failing light of day. The shades of the dead could be seen more clearly, and several of the Dunedain turned to see the source of the dim sound of souls flocking to follow Aragorn, the heir of Isildur. The setting sun reflected blood red against the shadows of the dead, revealing features and forms that had been hidden in the dimness of the glen. Some of the men had clearly died in battle. Others had died at home, shriveled and bent with age. There were no women in the group, nor children. They had not been bound by Isildur's curse and were no doubt waiting in some dark corner of the afterlife to be united with their loved ones. Nearly three thousand years they had waited for the debt of betrayal to be paid. Deep desire like a hunger of the heart, the undercurrents of that painful waiting, could be heard as a plaintive keening carried on the wind that moved the souls forward.

i

My life lies behind me as waves on the shore. Evening and morning, summer and winter. Stars and the brightness of Arnor. I see the crafting of the Valar, but I do not partake. I am always alone.

At times, I watch. I find myself standing, sometimes, under the very eaves of cottages, spying on the families that dwell within. Joy and laughter, friendship and fellowship play out on a thousand stages before my eyes. Somehow, they all enjoy and endure and birth and grow old and die. I know them and watch them but dare not touch the rough edges of their love. I am not able. I am not worthy. I carry on my soul a dark stain, black not red. It is hideous. It means that I cannot love. I am not loveable.

Weary of wandering (and I have wandered far), I long ago looked for a place untroubled by the tensions of fellowship denied. High in a meadow I found a great orb of black stone. As tall as three men and as heavy as death, it stands forgotten by Men and Elves. I touch it with my hands and talk to it. I lie down in its shadow and cling to the smoothness of its surface. It is strong, impenetrable, forgotten. Alone as I am alone. It becomes my strength.

I am not always sad and melancholy. There are times when watching the stars of the night that I am reminded of the great Awakening on the shores of the Sea of Helcar. Life and the Song surged unhindered at Cuivienen. All was good. All was new. Love was a tender bud, a shoot that took root and flourished in the hearts of the Firstborn. I danced with others, then, danced and laughed and joy flowed deeper than words, so strong it could almost be touched. I was held in a safe embrace, unfettered by the wound I was -Ai, but the vision fades. It doesn't matter. I can never go there again.

Much easier it is to visit the dark and the pain, and remember the breaking of my soul. Time and again I relive the wounding that led to the great darkness. There were smells of war-raged orcs; of sweat and blood, unleashed power- intentions of violence and dominion. Those that I had loved were torn from me in anguish as dust before the wind. I was saved for a time, salvaged for more brutal ends. I was helpless as my body was violated, my fea broken beyond repair. And thus the darkness began.

So quick the wounding and so long lived the wound. My wholeness was removed and I was left burdened with a weeping sore, a twisted scar, a stain that drenched my very soul with sorrow unending, unyielding, severing bonds with all I had known. I am nothing and worse than nothing, for I still hold broken shards of what was once whole. An abomination of what was once fair. It is a contrite mercy that left me existing totally bereft of the Song. My safety is in the shadows, and I can do no better than to simply accept who I am and what I have become. I dare not ask for Mandos' kind embrace. It is too grand for me.

I sleep and rest, hiding from the brilliant light of day. I find my solace in the light of the stars and the shadows that hide my brokenness for a time.

ii

The sun was nearly set when, in its course to the horizon, a single ray reflected off the surface of the Stone of Erech, a huge sphere set deep in the ground overlooking the Blackroot Vale. Strange and unnatural in its own right, its weight resting deep within the soil, the Stone stood, as beacon to the dead who would fulfill their doom. Isildur himself had brought the stone hence. It was a relic from Numenor and imbued with the power to bind and hold. Long ago at this rock Isildur had called for the men of the Erech to swear loyalty. But when the time came to join him and fight, they were forsworn. As the men of Erech died, the oath claimed them and they were doomed to haunt valley and vale until called by Isildur's heir.

It was well past dark when the company arrived at the Stone. Weariness showed on even the most stalwart of the Dunedain. A full day's ride with the shadows of the dead nipping at their heels and fear creeping through every fiber of their body had taken its toll. Isildur's heir alone rode tall in his saddle. If anything his aura of strength and courage that had been evident in the morning had only grown and deepened throughout the day. The group passed beyond the stone, then Aragorn alone turned and drew close to the rock. The spirits of the dead clustered on the surface of the stone as flies are drawn to honey. They moved as though twisted by a dark wind, but there was no sound among them. Even seated on the back of the horse, Aragorn's figure was dwarfed by the tableau in front of him.

"Oathbreakers, why have you come?" Aragorn's voice was strong and clear and held no fear or hesitation.

And then there was the sound of low murmuring and discomfort as voices disused for millennia groaned and sighed. Then the anguished voices of many rent the night air with a cry. After the cry, a single rough voice said, "To fulfill our oath and have peace." Then the spirits were silent, but they never stopped writhing and moving about the surface of the stone.

"The hour is come at last," said Aragorn and he instructed the souls to come with him to Pelargir, to cleanse the Enemy from the shores of the Anduin, thus fulfilling their oath. The spirits stilled for a moment, and then a deep sound of assent rose from the group, edged with a tone of relief, for at last the oath breakers had seen Hope that their agony might come to an end.

Aragorn turned then and ordered that a small fire be built and camp be made for the night. The riders dismounted dazed with weariness, for the strangeness and stresses of the day had taken their toll. They ate a cold meal and did not take respite in pipe or song, but went to sleep quickly, clustered together like small children for comfort and safety.

Legolas had offered to take first watch, and Aragorn joined him.

It was near the middle of the watch. Aragorn was patrolling the south end of the camp overlooking the vale. His back was to the Stone and he faced away from the host of the Dead. Legolas, unfettered by fear of the spirits of Men patrolled the opposite perimeter. The spirits had calmed to silence, and save for a natural wind that blew from the mountains to the valley, there was not a sound to be heard. It was not a sound but a presence that Legolas sensed that made him move to the right of the stone. Gazing into the darkness he thought he saw a flicker of movement. Almost without thinking he drew his knife and stepped forward.

Slowly an apparition emerged from the shadows. Legolas was sucked in his breath at the sight that met his eyes. He saw a figure that was tall and slender. It had perhaps had fair features once, but the face was twisted and distorted with pain and sorrow. A great cloak was wrapped securely around its body. As he continued to look upon the apparition, Legolas realized that the deep blackness of the shroud was not cloth, but a heavy mantle of Darkness and despair. The stench of orc emanated from the figure so strongly that Legolas could feel his stomach clench. As the figure turned a great oozing wound was revealed, and the profile of an ellyth was barely discernable by the light of the stars.

Legolas' eyes widened. He clenched his teeth as revulsion and fear crashed over him. "Aragorn, Tolo!" he hissed.

Immediately, Aragorn pulled his sword and turned to see Legolas, frozen with fear, knife dangling useless from his hand. Cautiously the Man crept to where Legolas stood. He peered into the darkness, trying to discern what ill had claimed his friend.

"Aragorn," whispered Legolas, "she should not be here."

Dimly Aragorn began to perceive the outline of a young one. He could see that her face was pale, but comely. Aragorn walked until he stood close beside Legolas. The form continued to become clearer in the dim starlight. Aragorn was amazed at the grace and beauty of the creature. Her hair was unbound and cascaded down her back to her waist. The features of her face were balanced and gracious. She had the look of naïve innocence that marked many of the firstborn, but she carried herself with an aura of wisdom and age. Unbidden, the spirit turned her head and the outline of an Elvin ear could be seen.

"Sweet Eru," swore Aragorn under his breath. "Who is she?"

The spirit looked upon them both, then, and her eyes conveyed such sweetness haunted by such powerful darkness that they were taken aback. She seemed as surprised as they were, as though not sure whether to hide or step forth.

Aragorn found his voice first, "Who are you?" he asked gently, but in a tone that expected a response.

The apparition startled with fright at Aragorn's words, and flew from him, directly at Legolas.

i

When I woke to watch the stars my Stone had been overrun with a great host of spirits and earth bound souls. The souls of the Men unhoused were mere whispers in the air, no more noticeable that the clouds of gnats that often congregated over the tall grasses in the summer. There were others about, but the shadow that bound me made it hard to see. Cautiously I braced my hand upon the Stone and peered into the darkness to better see those who were before me. Suddenly I was confronted with the form of a great Elf warrior. He stood sword drawn and battle ready. Although young, the strength of his fea shone from his body like the light of Ithil and his hair gleamed golden in the firelight. His countenance was as a mighty mallorn tree, solid in power and powerful in its embrace of life. He was a warrior, but his beauty and the force of his life breath alone was enough to make me ashamed of myself for standing so near.

Then he spoke, and though the sounds of his words were dim in my ears, I perceived the timbre of molten gold. Thankful I was of the darkness that cloaked me. I hid behind it, knowing that I was not worthy to stand in his presence. I knew that I should hide myself and yet I was drawn to his light. I would not have moved, but for a second figure that came into view.

It was a Man with a fea as deep and strong as a mighty oak, I sensed at once that his roots were long; he was the fruit of Men, Elf and even Maia. A child of royal line, as was the Elf, but even the elf did not have the power that this one held. The Man looked at me. Our eyes met. With certainty I knew that he saw me as I really was. Knew me and accepted me and wanted to speak with me. In that single moment I was simultaneously gripped with abject terror and profound joy. Fear took my feet and heedless of my direction I ran for safety – into the heart of the golden haired one.

Oh to be housed in a body again! Suddenly I was assaulted with the rich smell of horses with leather tack nearby. There was the unmistakable tang of Man in the air, a heady smell as light and rich as the meadows, and a heavier smell of earth that told me in a moment that there were Men, Elves and a dwarf in the company. And the sounds! With the flickering of flame from burning wood came the hissing and crackling of the fire as it burned. I could hear the shallow breathing of the Mortals and the deeper breathing of the horses. The wind called softly from the mountains, and I could feel the bracing cold as it slid over skin. The air, moving into lungs and out again woke in me remembrances that I had long forgotten. Deep beneath all hummed and thrummed the deep resonance of what could only be the Song.

Ai, the Song! Sung by Iluvator and his Children. Crafted for Creation. Ever changing, ever the same. Deep ran the song through the mountains. Light ran the harmonies in the growing things. Grand was the melody in the stars. Each creature had a song, and all joined to become the music of Arda and beyond. The grandeur of the music overwhelmed me. I was small, silent, a nothing in the tapestry of music.

And yet, in my own small way I could not help but hunger for that taste of music that I had so long been denied. My brokenness rasped discord and chaos. I knew that I had no place in the Song. It was for all the rest of Creation, but not for me.

Frantically, I cast about within the fea of my host, looking for some small security to restore my balance. My gaze swept his memories. There was light, yes, and laughter, but they were often bound with golden cord or set in boxes with lids. In his mind I could see only row upon row of fights with the Shadow of Darkness. Orcs were there, and spiders and a great withering breath of malaise and fear. All these my host had fought. I knew so well what living with the darkness had done for me. It grieved my heart to see one so young so enmeshed with fighting the Shadow.

Then I chanced to look back on the way that I had come. To my horror, great swaths of darkness marred my path behind me. Even as I watched, the open wound that marked my soul bled its putrid contents onto the soul of the warrior. Tendrils of fear and decay worked long fingers into sinew and bone; dimness breathed down the corridors of his mind. I should have known to keep distance, to hold my woundedness to myself. As quickly as I could, I departed.

ii

Aragorn watched in dismay as the apparition flew towards Legolas. The elf's eyes open widely and he cried out softly. Pain twisted his features and he fell to his knees. He would have fallen full to the ground but he caught himself on his hands. Aragorn dropped his sword and bent over his friend. He placed his hands on Legolas' shoulders, noting the deep trembling of the body beneath them. Legolas groaned and crumpled fully. He rolled to his side, pulling his knees up tightly to his belly. At that moment there was a shimmering in the air and the apparition reappeared and flew into the night.

"Legolas?"

The elf shuddered and drew a deep breath. He rolled to his knees and for a moment it looked as though he were going to be sick. He shook his head as though to clear it. "I am fine, mellon nin."

Aragorn grinned, but then sobered, "Indeed?" he asked dryly

Slowly Legolas righted himself and sat by his friend. A look of revulsion crossed his fair face. "It was the soul, the fea of an elf, Aragorn, old, very old, ancient. But where the Song would reside there was silence," he closed his eyes, then continued, "Long have I fought the shadow, my friend, but never have I known such darkness and sorrow. It flew into my heart and drenched me with its putrid dimness. I am fouled from within. I must find a way to cleanse my heart," he paused, "I might yet be sick."

"Darkness, Legolas? From where did it come? The apparition was a vision of beauty and sorrow."

Legolas looked at Aragorn in disbelief. "That is not what I perceived. I saw a figure wrapped in a shroud of Dark Shadow." He wiped his hands on his chest as though to cleanse them.

Aragorn looked at his friend for a moment then rose and stirred the fire. Quietly he filled a small pot with water from a waterskin and set it on to boil.

"What are you doing?" asked Legolas

"You look terrible. I thought some athelas would help you. How do you feel?"

Legolas closed his eyes for a moment. "I feel as though I am drenched body and soul in sorrow and Shadow. I smell of orc . . . " The elf swayed slightly, the placed his head in his hands. "She is not benign, that apparition. I do not sense that she is evil, but she carries a heavy burden. Darkness owns her. Ai, mellon nin, I am sorely wounded." He clutched his stomach and leaned forward, breathing heavily.

Aragorn placed a comforting hand on Legolas' shoulder. For a time the two watched the flames. Then the water began to simmer. Swiftly Aragorn took a few leaves of athelas from his belt pouch. He crushed the leaves in his hand and breathed across them, then scattered them on the surface of the water. "Come, Legolas," he said at last. "See if this doesn't go far in cleansing your soul."

Legolas moved closer to the steam and gratefully breathed in the fumes. He could almost feel the shadows disengaging from his form. Slowly he relaxed as he felt the nausea pass. Without being asked, Aragorn placed a comforting hand upon Legloas' chest. The elf felt a warm tingle of healing flow through his body. There was a sense of being purged, then a sense of clean hollowness followed. Legolas closed his eyes and sighed in relief. "Hannon le, mellon nin," he said quietly at last.

Aragorn didn't respond. When Legolas looked at his friend, he saw that the Man was gazing at a point behind Legolas' shoulder. Quickly the elf pivoted to see what held Aragorn's attention. At the edge of the camp, where the firelight slid into shadows was a slight figure. The apparition had returned.

i

I swear I did not mean to wend my way into the fea of the elf uninvited. I should not have lingered there as I did. I could feel the dark decay ooze from my wound and taint the house of his soul even in the few moments I dwelt within. Bad enough that I should bear such an abomination. That I should scar the soul of one who was so strong and good almost undid me. Briefly I wondered how badly I had wounded the golden warrior. Would he be condemned to wander as I had been?

I was filled with such remorse that I almost turned and fled across the valley. But then the gentle voices of the Man and the Elf drew me in. The Man was sitting close to the tainted one. He was not afraid to draw close to the darkness I had instilled. He concocted a simple potion with water and herbs and it seemed to do the golden warrior good. Somehow a tiny hint of the odor made its way past my dark shroud and I found myself craving more of it. It was robust and satisfying, almost like food. I had hardly enough time to breathe it in before the scent dissipated and I found myself desperate for more. Forcefully I set aside my fears and allowed myself to venture within sight of the Man.

Cautiously I approached the place where the two were sitting. The golden warrior was visibly upset and moved quickly aside to let me pass. I stopped and watched him amazed. The darkness that had entwined him so quickly was slowly relinquishing its hold. Never had I witnessed one being freed from the shadow. I had no idea that it was possible. It filled me with hope and with terror. Quickly I pulled back to the edge of the clearing. The golden warrior seemed to open up and relax. Unexpectedly, he looked in my direction. His gaze was filled with loathing and disgust. I trembled and fled.

ii

The apparition vanished again without a sound. Legolas visibly relaxed when he realized that the figure had left for a time. The elf had ridden in the presence of a great host of spirits during the day without effort, but this one visage had unnerved him to his very core. Eagerly he returned to his watch, pacing the perimeter with a vengeance, as though to dispel the last remnants of the darkness in his heart.

Aragorn was less inclined to actively patrol his boundary. He was weary. The eve before their departure into the haunted ravine he had spent the night locked in conflict with Sauron himself, gripping the Stone of Orthanc, pressing his will into the palantir to reveal to the necromancer his identity and his intentions. The struggle had hopefully bought time for the two hobbits that carried the Ring, but it had pushed Aragorn to his very limit.

As glad as he was to see his foster brothers and the rangers, he felt the burden of leading them into danger. During the day he had not allowed any sign of fear to slip through his marshaled features, but the strain of holding a confident countenance had taken its toll as well. He could not afford to harbor any glimmer of doubt, and to this moment all went well, but he was not sure how it would go in Pelargir. The size of the enemy's force was large; he had seen it for himself in the palantir. And while he had no qualms against slaying the minions of the Dark Lord, he knew that there would also be many slaves pressed unwillingly into service. To kill them would serve no purpose. Indeed it would be the height of injustice to spill innocent blood. Furthermore, willing hands would be needed to move the ships upriver to the battle at Minas Tirith. Aragorn put his head in his hands. He was tired, and yet he knew that the burdens of the day would disrupt any attempt at sleep if he could not set them down.

Slowly, he stood and stretched his arms wide to the stars above. Comforted by their gentle light and unyielding presence, Aragorn breathed deeply and returned to his watch. He had all but forgotten the apparition, when he nearly walked into her as he rounded a small stone outcropping. She was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees. Her face was turned upwards and in the light of Ithil, Aragorn could see silver traces of tears as she wept. He saw more clearly the shroud that Legolas had spoken of, and his heart went out to her.

"Gentle lady, why do you weep?" he asked quietly, hoping that she would not depart. Cautiously, he knelt down so that he was eye to eye with her. She looked at him then, and he saw her light and beauty, but also the great sorrow that weighed heavily upon her spirit. Almost without noticing, Aragorn set aside the burdens on his mind and took on the mantle of healer. Critically he looked upon her. She was indeed the fea of a firstborn. Why this ellyth still haunted Arda perplexed Aragorn. Legolas had said that her Song was silenced. Perhaps without kin to help her on the journey, she could not find her way.

Aragorn realized that as healer, he had little that he could offer her. Herbs, maybe. The athelas had helped Legolas although its effects were limited when it was used alone. She was spirit so he could not add a healing touch, although that would surely go far in releasing the shadow. He sighed audibly and leaned back on his heels.

The figure continued to gaze at him. Fear flickered across her face. Slowly she reached out a hand as though to touch him, her eyes silently asking for what her voice could not.

"Avo osto," whispered Aragorn, "Don't be afraid. Come, and I will prepare the athelas. You must immerse yourself in the fumes and we will see if your darkness will abate." The apparition's eyes were dark and intense. Aragorn could only hope that she had understood.

As Aragorn stirred the fire and set water on for the athelas a plan formed in his mind. "Legolas," he called quietly to the elf, "Come. I need your help."

Legolas came willingly enough but stopped short when he saw the spirit. He looked at the bubbling water and narrowed his eyes. "Estel, what can a healer do for the dead?" The elf stood tensely, refusing to come closer.

"That is why I need your help, mellon nin," said Aragorn. "You are a warrior now, but I know that your heart is ever with the trees. You have the skill to wake them from the shadows and restore them to health. Could you sing to her tonight, and attempt to restore her song?"

"I will sing for her, yes," acquiesced Legolas at last, "Although I confess I am repulsed by her darkness."

"If that is how you perceive her then perhaps you have dwelt with the darkness too long," said Aragorn, "Although after what she did to you, I am not surprised. Bear with me in this. I would like to see her welcomed home in Mandos' Halls tonight."

Legolas came forward and sat near Aragorn. The apparition trembled, but drew near to the fire and set herself close to the steaming pan of water. Aragorn gathered a handful of dried athelas from his pouch, crumbled it and breathed across it. He placed the herb into the water and soon the enticing and refreshing smell of athelas filled the air. There was a short season of silence, then Legolas closed his eyes and began to sing.

i

I had heard molten gold in his voice before, but when he sang it was ever so much sweeter and stronger. The elf's voice flowed around me, even as the athelas did, covering me with light and strength and security. I did not need to hear the words to know the meaning of the song. Visions of spring, timid breaths of new life, sap flowing, water sparkling fresh from snowmelt all crowded through my mind. In the deep places of my soul, there was not space for both the darkness and the life light that surrounded me, and soon the shadows began to give way.

Slowly at first, the shadows began to relinquish their iron fisted grasp upon my soul, disengaging with reluctance from the corners where they had dwelt for millennia. Fiercely the weight of fear and brokenness held fast, but it was not mighty enough to stand against the power of the Song.

I could feel a great doorway in my heart give way, and suddenly I could feel the torrent of blackness and brokenness flowing from me in a mighty current. So intense was the sensation that I cried out and strove to stand firm. I was frightened and thought that I might be swept away and perish.

But the strength of the golden elf was with me then. I could feel the hands of his heart holding my timid fea. He was gentle, but the power he wielded was secure. He would not let me stumble or fall.

At first his singing had been almost reluctant, as though he were doing a simple duty for his friend, but as my fea began to awaken the timbre of his voice changed and I knew that it was his true voice, singing the Song that Iluvator had given to him, singing the joy that was his birthright, singing the life that weaves all of creation together into a mighty tapestry. On the wings of this new voice I felt myself open and clean. Emptied of all the darkness and fear that had shrouded my fea for so long. Open and light and living.

Great was the song that the elf sang to me, but in the hollows between the notes I began to hear a frail melody that was not of his making. A timid sound, but clear and beautiful. Astonished, I realized that the Song was my own.

And then I became aware of someone calling my name. Not Gwathnaer , Dark Lament, the name I had called myself in the darkness, but Merenel , Joy, the name I was given at birth. Reluctantly, I moved towards the one that was calling me. I could feel the golden elf carefully relinquishing his hold. I stood upon the strength of his Song, felt the strength of my Song, then, stretching as tall and as wide and as open as I could, I allowed my soul to embrace the silent winds that would take me home to Mandos' Halls.

ii

In all the years that he had known Legolas, Aragorn had never heard him sing as he did that night. The athelas eased the tensions of the body that Aragorn had accumulated through the day, but it was the timbre of Legolas voice that fully restored the strength of his heart. He knew that Legolas was singing a song of awakening, but after a time he heard a deeper and stronger resonance that spoke of renewal and rightness. As the elf moved his voice expertly through the music of healing, Aragorn was reminded again of the love and power that ultimately held the world together. Evil was but a moment of discord in the much greater reality of beauty and order.

Aragorn opened his hands and allowed the starlight to play upon his palms. He vowed silently in the days to come to hold fast to the rightness that was to be found in the world, and not be swayed by the deadly threads of darkness. He breathed deeply and felt a great burden slide from his heart.

He didn't notice when the apparition vanished, but when Legolas drew his song to a close he felt the solid balance of the moment hanging full and complete in the silence between them.

"Hannon le," he said at last.

The first watch was drawing to a close, and it was time to wake Elladan and Elrohir for duty. The souls of the Men of Erech were stilled, although they were still a strong presence in the camp. On the morrow it would be a long day of riding hard. Minas Tirith was already besieged and every moment of delay was costing lives and diminishing resources. The weight of the war would rest on Aragorn's shoulders again ere long, but on this night he slept a deep and restful sleep, remembering the song of a friend.

Tolo – come!

Fea – the soul

Hannon le – thank you

Mellon nin – my friend

Palantir – seeing stone

Ithil – the moon

Ellyth – female elf

Avo osto – don't be afraid

Mandos' Halls – Mandos receives the souls of elves that die and, after a time in his halls, they are restored to life.