Forever Afternoon
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Word Count:
5,080
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note:
It is, I suppose, a good thing that I was able to get this put together a lot faster than the last few chapters. It is even a bit impressive when I consider all that was going on this past week and how little time I had for myself at all. I hesitate to call it a good thing because I had to stop and rewrite the last scene, and it didn't get to where I had planned to end this chapter. Perhaps that is better. Perhaps not.


Consequences of Battles and Choices

Sérëdhiel knew told herself firmly that the unpleasant churning in her stomach was because of what she could see in this aftermath of war, in knowing that those she loved most—her husband and her brother—had been a part of the destruction that she could see all around her, and not because of anything that Alassë would suggest to spite her. She forced herself to go forward, unwilling to let her unease dissuade her from her path. She had to find her way to her brother or Nostalion—she expected them to be together, but she knew that she should not assume that.

She led the others across the battle-scarred land, not stopping for the bodies or the debris. She did not want to think about how many must have died—only that the ones that she loved must have survived this. She would not accept any other outcome. Her family was alive, and soon they would all be together again.

Varyar had disappeared for much longer and fought through worse than this, and she knew that Nostalion had as well. He would not let her brother fall, nor would Firyavaryar allow anyone he protected to be harmed. Nostalion was family. Varyar would make certain that his family came through it alive, even if it cost him everything.

"Why do we not go for the city itself?" Eruaistaniel asked, and Sérëdhiel looked back at her with a frown. Perhaps it was the fatigue that motivated her friend's question. They had been traveling for many days now, and Eruaistaniel of all of them got the least sleep, plagued as she was by nightmares. Even with Thenidriel, Alassë managed to appear more rested when they broke camp. "I have no true desire to dwell in a city of men, no matter how fine its appearance, but I do not know why we turn from the obvious location. Legolas will be with his friend, the one that is Isildur's heir, and that one would be at Minas Tirith."

"I do believe that they will be there, and I know there will be need for us in the city's halls of healing," Sérëdhiel told her. She knew that was where she should be, that she should be in those halls, using her training to aid others, but she was still selfish. She would not put those others before her family. "I also know that Varyar would not be there. Even if he were injured, he would not go among the others to be treated."

"He knows there is no cure," Idhrenion said, shaking his head. Alassë touched his arm, comforting him, and he forced himself to smile for her and Thenidriel. He brushed his hand against his wife's cheek before he closed his eyes and spoke, letting his hand fall as he did. "He would not risk spreading what he carries to those already weakened. He would try to heal himself somewhere that he could not harm anyone, if healing was even possible."

"Healing is possible," Sérëdhiel insisted, refusing to allow herself to think of the alternative. She would not lose her brother, would not lose Nostalion, either. She would find them. It would be easier if she had her husband's ability, but it was not impossible without it. He might even find her, now that they were closer to where he should be.

"I do not see strange elf," Lothanlass said, and Sérëdhiel sighed. She would like to have found some way to leave the onod behind, but they had not managed to do it yet. Even when he fell asleep, he somehow managed to wake and locate them, though she supposed their pace was not what it would have been without a gwinig with them. "I do not see anyone alive at all. I do not like to see so much death."

"None of us do," Idhrenion told him. He let out a breath. "The air is different now. The shadow no longer holds as it once did. Even though there is death and decay, there is not darkness, not as it was before. It has been lifted, and I can feel it everywhere. The land is lighter. We are all much lighter."

The onod looked at him, and then he lifted him up, studying him. "I do not believe you are lighter, brother of strange elf."

Idhrenion glared at the ent. "Put me down."

Thenidriel giggled. Idhrenion glanced toward her. "It is a sad day indeed when my own daughter is against me. Varyar would be laughing, and I suppose it it is rather... pitiable, but I cannot say I like this. Why must I be humiliated in front of—and even by—my offspring?"

"Perhaps because you are just that sort of fool?" Alassë answered with a smile. "Thenidriel, we do like that your father is such a silly elf, do we not? Or am I alone in this?"

The gwinig laughed, and Idhrenion grunted, trying to adjust his place inside the ent's hold. "We need to find Varyar. Quickly."


"Let me see to your arm."

Legolas shook his head. "You do not need to treat me. I am well enough."

Aragorn looked at his friend, shaking his head at the elf's stubbornness. He would still be standing on the battlefield if he could, looking for the friend that had supposedly made their victory possible. Aragorn didn't know that he believed that—it was not that he would accuse Legolas or any of the others of lying, and he knew that Gandalf had said that Firyavaryar had a part to play yet—but Aragorn would rather credit the land's collapse to the destruction of the ring than the poison that Firyavaryar carried. It seemed even more likely when he considered that the Avari had disappeared after his "trick" and not been seen since, not him or Nostalion.

"Leaving your wound untreated will not bring him back. Even if he is protective of you, he cannot save you from your own stupidity when it comes to your health," Aragorn told Legolas, and the prince of Mirkwood glared at him.

"You assume that all I am concerned with is Varyar. That is not true," Legolas insisted. "Though I suppose I am glad that you are not speaking of it as though the sea longing is behind all this, that I am not—that I did not imagine all of it because of that malady."

Aragorn shook his head. "I would not belittle what you have suffered because of that longing, but I do not think it made you crazy. You were not alone in seeing or working with Firyavaryar."

Legolas looked at him, inclining his head. "Were you also aware that he was alive?"

There. The question Aragorn had been dreading. He did not want to answer truthfully, but he could not lie to Legolas. They were gwedeir, and he would not betray that. "I was."

"You are needed elsewhere, and this will heal on its own."

Aragorn shook his head. "I am not going because you are angry with me. I cannot leave under these terms. It was not that long ago that a rift formed between us because of Firyavaryar, and I refuse to let that happen again. I did not tell you I knew of his survival—"

"I did not ask for an excuse."

"He asked us not to tell you," Aragorn said, unwilling to be blamed for Firyavaryar's actions. "He did not intend to survive the battle, and he said it would only hurt you more to have him be alive, to have hope, and then lose it again. I agreed with him, though I did not like it."

"You do not like anything to do with Firyavaryar," Legolas said. He shook his head. "I did not tell you to go because I am interested in creating another rift. I told you to go because I still believe what I told you before—I am well enough, and you are needed elsewhere."

"Legolas, I do not want you to suffer, not because you are stubborn and not because you are angry with me and also not because I chose poorly. I did not know how to refuse Firyavaryar's offer to fight with us, not when he seemed necessary, but his terms were, as usual, unacceptable."

The elf shook his head. "I am not angry about your choice, Estel. I think I may have made the same, though it would not have been as successful—I am a poor liar—but I do know that you should be somewhere else. You have duties, and they are not to me, not when time alone will mend this wound."

Aragorn blinked. "Are you trying to make me leave?"

"You are a king, and while the hands of the king can heal, they are needed by others, not by me. I am not suffering, and so if you insist upon healing someone, find someone who needs it more. If not, please know that you are free to see to your other duties."

"I am not a king yet."

"The coronation is only a ceremony. You became king when you led them into battle," Legolas told him, smiling a little. "You are too good a man and too good a king to linger here with one that is not injured. Go."

"Don't worry, laddie. I'll stick with this one and see that he gets treated," Gimli said, and Aragorn looked down at him, wondering how he had missed the dwarf's arrival. He supposed it did not matter. He could leave Gimli to watch over Legolas, since the elf did not seem to want him there. He did not know if they would mend this rift, but at least he knew that Gimli would protect Legolas if the elf decided to do something foolish.

"I will return," Aragorn promised. Perhaps it was a warning. Legolas nodded, and Aragorn forced himself to leave. He could not fix this now, but he would when he returned.


"Why did you force him away?"

Legolas looked down at his hands. "I will tell you as I told him: he has other duties to see to. There are many more injured than I am, and there are other things as well. He cannot expect the people to be happy with him as king if he does not act as king. We both know he knows how to be that king, but he still believes he can act as he did before the throne was upon him. That is not true."

Gimli frowned at him. "You think he cannot be our friend now that he is a king?"

Legolas forced a smile. "I am the son of a king, Gimli. Do you think I fail to know the weight of that responsibility? I know that my father has told me several times that he is always my father, always there to be that father, but I know the reality of that is far from what he would prefer. He cannot always act as my father. Sometimes he must act like my king. It is the same for Estel now. He may want to act only as our friend, but he must act as a king."

Gimli nodded. "Aye, that's true, but when he's being a friend, when he can be, should we not allow him to be?"

"Do not think I have not." Legolas rose. He knew it would not seem like that when he had asked—told—Estel to go, but he also knew that he was trying to help him. It was best that he saw to others that needed him more, and Legolas' own temper was not good for company at present. He had spared them both what might become another rift. He did not want to argue, and he could not deny that it hurt to know that others had kept Varyar's survival from him. He knew why Firyavaryar would not tell him that he was alive—he knew his gwador would not forgive himself for the betrayal—but he did not know how to accept the others that had gone along with that decision. Nostalion he understood, the assassin's loyalty was to Varyar, no one else, and he knew that Sérëdhiel and Idhrenion would have followed Firyavaryar's decision, but Estel, Elladan, Elrohir, and undoubtedly others had all said nothing while Legolas grieved. The trees had tried to tell him, but he had been made to believe that was a lie.

He did not know how to feel about that, and he could not think, not here among the wounded, not with the sea longing pulling at his heart as well.

"You're sure this has nothing to do with that other pointy-eared devil?"

Legolas almost laughed. He did find Gimli's nickname for Varyar amusing, even if he should not. "I suppose it has some to do with him, but I am not angry with Estel. I am only trying to determine how I feel—while trying not to worry about Firyavaryar's failure to reappear since the battle. I know why he would not want to be close, but I know he lives. He cannot conceal that from me any longer. He could be here, and yet he is not."

"You think he fell in the battle? His body was not recovered."

"It would not have been. You have seen what the poison he carries is capable of, and it does not leave anything behind," Legolas reminded the dwarf. "If Varyar died, there would be no way to know of it, and that is very troubling to me. I cannot wish to hear that news again, and I fear this time, there would be no way to make me believe it."

"Last time you did."

"Because I saw Varyar fall, and no one should have survived that fall, not even one of the firstborn," Legolas explained. He did not know what had saved his friend, and he knew that Firyavaryar was not grateful to have survived, but Legolas was. He knew others must be as well. Even those who did not like him owed Varyar for what he had done during the battle at the black gate. "It should not have been possible."

"Yet he did."

"I would think it could not be too much to call it the will of the Valar, though it is strange that they would act for an Avari, one who did not have any desire to take the journey and lacked faith in them as well. He would not accept that as an answer, and even with Mithrandir's survival, it is difficult to believe that the circumstances were the same for Firyavaryar."

Gimli grunted. "Aye. It's difficult to see them sparing one like him, but you have to admit that he was useful, like those dead Aragorn called. If the dead can be of use, then why not your friend?"

"Because he should not have had to be a tool. He spent his entire life running from what other people were trying to make him into, from what they were trying to force him to be. He did not want to be a warrior and lead Ogol's armies as he had been supposedly bred to be, and he did not want to be someone who could be used against his friends or his family. All he ever wanted was peace, and I do not care if he did not believe in the Valar or choose the journey. He did not deserve to suffer because of it. He did not have to be their instrument, and that affliction he was given by Draugminaion—no one should have had to bear that. Why do that to anyone?"

Gimli shook his head. "I do not know. Frodo carried the ring, and it almost killed him, and he was the same, wasn't he? Maybe he wanted an adventure, but not that one. Even now, he may not recover. I don't know if anyone else could have done it, though. Certainly not a pointy-eared elf princeling like you. You'd have decided it was just as pretty as you think you are and kept the ring for yourself."

"And you, dwarf? What would you have done with the ring? Reclaimed Moria?" Legolas asked, but he knew when he was being teased. He let out a breath. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it was not so much a matter of deserving his burden but the fact that Varyar alone could have borne it as he did, that he alone could have used it and not become the monster that so many others would have been. The ring almost corrupted Frodo, and Varyar would have called himself corrupted, but he was not. He never became what Ogol wanted him to be, what Draugminaion tried to make him. Even at his worst, when he betrayed me, he did it in a way that saved as many others as he could. If he had given Ogol Estel..."

"It's for sure none of us would be standing here now," Gimli said. "None of this would have been possible without Aragorn."

"He is the king."


"He scares you?"

Sérëdhiel looked over at her brother, not amused. He had come up behind her so quietly as to startle her, and if anyone had frightened her lately, it was him, though she would not admit that. She had never seen Firyavaryar this dark before, and she spoke of so much more than the dark tongue that he used more often than he did Sindarin. "Who?"

Varyar smiled, amused in that twisted way that had replaced the almost carefree laughter of his youth. She would drag him back to Legolas, knowing somehow she would hear true laughter from him again if she did, but she knew Varyar would never allow himself to be seen by his old friend in this state. He touched a gloved hand to his short hair and grimaced.

"You know who."

She shook her head. "I do not like the way that Nostalion looks at me—I do not like how much he knows—but he does not frighten me. Maybe once, when you first brought him home, but not now. He is... I see something there, underneath all that outward darkness, that is light and good and fragile, something he would hide from everyone... He is much like you."

Firyavaryar snorted. "Nostalion is an assassin, and with his tracking ability, he would be even better at his work than before. Me? I am a walking plague, and I bring only death to those around me. I have nothing good left in me, not now."

She reached for him, but he turned away from her. "Do you want to die, Sérëdhiel? There are less painful ways of doing so."

"What I want is my brother. I refuse to let you go, Firyavaryar. You have protected us all our lives, but I have healed us, and I will do it again."

"Would you fix Nostalion, too?"

"I do not want him to suffer. We can help him, and he should not have to go back to the ones who betrayed him."

"You are the one that is good," Varyar told her, letting his gloved hand brush against her cheek. "One day I fear there will be something you cannot mend, and I do not want you to suffer when it does. Not for me."

She wrapped both her hands around the glove. "There is already something here I cannot mend, but I love you, and I hope that is enough to keep you fighting this instead of letting it claim you. No, I know it will be. You always fight for us, and this is not any different from that. You will fight to stay with us because you know we need you."

"And if Nostalion needs you more?"

"I did not know you were a matchmaker."

"Me? Do not be absurd. I am no such thing. I am also not blind. You see something in him, and that means you have already started to accept him. Whether that is as my ally or my friend or even as family remains to be seen."

Sérëdhiel was aware of Nostalion's presence before she saw him, a sensation she had come to recognize in the time that she had known him, her own senses made keener as she passed time in his company. She knew the way it felt when his eyes fell on her, knew the slight shift of them when his affection for her replaced the wariness, letting him lower his guard for a moment, though he always watched for a threat. Always.

"Nostalion," she said, running the last few steps toward him. She let him embrace her, taking both comfort and knowledge from his hold. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. "It is bad, then."

"He has not woken since I pulled him from the battle."

She tried to conceal her flinch, not wanting Idhrenion to see it and worry as she did, though her younger brother was no fool, either. He would know how poor Firyavaryar's state was as soon as he saw him. "Show me."

Nostalion led her and the others to where he had secured her brother, and this time she could not control her reaction. She fell beside him, needing to be closer to hear his soft breathing, unable to rely on her elven hearing alone. "Varyar."

"Strange elf," Lothanlass said, and Sérëdhiel would not have thought an onod could sound so grieved, but he did. His branches creaked as he bent near to them.

"Is he... dead?" Idhrenion asked. "I should be able to hear him, but I do not. I... Sérëdhiel, he is breathing—tell me that he is breathing."

"He is, but he is very weak. What happened?"

Nostalion grunted. "I believe he was injured before he attempted his stunt—I should not say it—he was successful, and its effects were dramatic, if not spectacular."

"It is Firyavaryar," Idhrenion said, managing a small smile despite his fear. "It is always spectacular."

Nostalion gave him a look. Sérëdhiel shook her head. They did not need to fight now. "What did he do?"

"He cut his hand and used the poison to tip arrows," Nostalion explained. "Elrohir, Legolas, and I all fired multiple arrows into the ground, causing it to swallow up the armies of Sauron."

Sérëdhiel lowered her head. If Varyar had been bleeding, he would have been weakened, and if he had tried to keep that blood from spilling close to his friends, the only way to do it would be to cover over the wound with his own hand. He would have poisoned himself further. That explained his condition.

"I suppose he would want to die," Idhrenion said, kneeling beside Varyar. "He would say he had done his part at last, that he had done as much as he could for redemption, and we should let him go."

She looked over at her brother. She knew that Idhrenion's words were true, but she refused to accept them. "No."

Nostalion touched her shoulder. "You know what he would want. Idhrenion is correct."

"No."

"The prophecy said that the king had healing hands," Eruaistaniel said, and Sérëdhiel nodded. She did remember that, though she did not know that it would help if he needed to touch Firyavaryar to heal him. "The one Varyar called echil should be king by now, and even if that cure could not be found in Greenwood, perhaps it does exist now."

"We must take strange elf to the king," Lothanlass said, reaching over to lift him into his branches. "I will carry him. He will not die."


"I've seen strange sights before, laddie, but not much like that one," Gimli said, watching the procession that made its way into the halls of healing. He had not seen the living trees for very long, not even during their visit to Isengard, but even if he had, he would have found the one moving about Minas Tirith an unnatural sight. Indeed, so unnatural was its presence that it gained entry to the city without much protest—no one knew how to refuse such a being, and even though the hobbits did not know this one—Lothanlass—by name, those that were about had quickly risen to the creature's defense and demanded it be let in the gates they were still repairing.

Then again, they did not need to speak for the ent when a certain daft elf ran down to the city gate, heedless of his own wounds, and welcomed the party with the ent into the city.

They should have been kept out, Gimli thought, for he knew one was a very dangerous creature—or so they had said—another a betrayer, and though these last few were strangers, they traveled with ones he did not trust. He did not care if that one devil might have helped them in the battle. He did not like those elves. They were not like Legolas.

Even if Legolas called them friends.

"Strange, but not unwelcome," Aragorn said, and Gimli looked back at him with a frown. The man smiled. "I am glad you sent for me. I do not think you need fear Firyavaryar's arrival, for it is what will comfort Legolas the most and ease his fears. He needs to know his friend's fate, needs to see it with his own eyes."

"Does he now?" Gimli asked, shaking his head. "Can there be value in seeing that?"

Aragorn's eyes went back to the ent, this time seeing the burden the tree carried in its gnarled branches. The bundle was too small, or so it seemed to Gimli, not the right size at all for an elf, but he had seen those clothes before, and he knew the elf that had worn them, the betrayer that Legolas still called friend. "Damn."

"Exactly," Gimli said, grunting. "I don't think that elf is going to live, Aragorn—and that is if he is even alive at all."

"They would not bring him here to bury," Aragorn said, already moving. He headed toward the group, leaving Gimli no choice but to put his natural sprinting to use as he ran after the man and joined the others.

"You travel in strange company," Aragorn observed as he reached the procession.

"By that do you mean my brother or the ent?" The female elf asked, facing the new king without fear, her own presence reminding Gimli of the Lady, of she who had no equal. This was not Galadriel, but he thought she must come from a similar line, being that compelling though far from that beautiful.

"The ent," Aragorn told her with a smile. "I have other names for your brother's company."

"Lothanlass calls him strange elf," the elf-maiden said, almost smiling. "I suppose it is almost fitting to consider him strange company, though I fear he will not be that for much longer."

Another elf-maiden darted forward from the back of their group, touching Aragorn's arm. "You are a king now? Is that prophecy true? The one about... healing?"

Gimli grimaced. He had seen that skill work, bringing back some who should have had no hope of recovery—Merry the hobbit and Éowyn of Rohan, both wounded by the Witch King, and also Frodo, nearly killed by his ordeal with the ring. He did not know that it could—or should—aid this one.

"Yes," Aragorn said, looking to Legolas before addressing the female again. "You would ask me to heal Firyavaryar?"

"I am not certain that you can—I remember hearing that it was the hands of the king that healed, and you cannot touch my brother," the first elf-maiden said, moving forward to tug at her companion, prying her off of Aragorn. "If I thought that you could do this, I would not ask. I would demand. I would scream and shout and put my own blade to your throat to make you comply—though I would not have to move for someone else would make the threat first."

Aragorn glanced toward the assassin, who glowered but did not contradict her words. The king nodded. "I have no doubt that it would be so. I would not think you would want my help—"

"I would not ask anything of you," Nostalion said, his voice cold. "We waste what time Varyar has left in coming here."

"Do not say that, cousin. Please," the other elf-maiden begged, and a third she-elf came to her side.

"Come, Eruaistaniel," the other elf said, leading her back to where another dark-haired elf stood, a baby in his arms. Gimli had never seen an elf child before—he knew some said they did not have them at all—and he found himself staring at it.

"I do not know that anything can be done for my brother now," the first elf-maiden said, lifting her head and looking straight at Aragorn. "He is succumbing to his injuries and the poison he carries, and perhaps all that he can have is the comfort of a bed. I do not know, but we all agreed to try rather than do nothing. If you will aid us, then do so. If you will not, then say so. Nostalion is correct—we will not waste the time that Varyar has left."

"You will not waste it at all, Sérëdhiel," Legolas insisted. He looked up at the tree, starting in on a low melody that had everyone stopping to listen. The sound was not unlike the one Gimli had heard given in lament for Gandalf, and had it gone on, perhaps it would have led to tears, but it ended, abrupt and discordant. "He was supposed to wake and tell me how poor my singing was."

Sérëdhiel shook her head. "He always said yours was better than his, and I would like to hear him say so now, but he has not stirred, not for anyone or anything. If we cannot do something for him here, now, then this is the end."