"The deeper the sorrow, the less tongue hath it."

-- Talmud.

Chapter 49: Of Life and Death

There was a clatter of running boots in the corridor outside and something slammed into the door. The solid oak shuddered against the bar that held it fast. "Aragorn!" a deep voice bellowed. "Aragorn, you bastard! If you've laid a finger on him I'll kill you!"

There was another shuddering crash and the blade of an axe cleaved between the edge of the door and its frame. The wood splintered as it withdrew and then thudded deep into the heavy bar across the door.

"Gimli wait!" Aragorn shouted. "Wait! It's all right!"

"Like Mordor it is!" Gimli roared back. "You lying son of a whore! I turn my back for two minutes –"

The axe wrenched free with a squeal of metal on wood and smashed down again. The bar broke and fell in two pieces to the floor. The door crashed open. His axe held high above his head, the water streaming from his sodden hair and clothes, Gimli burst into the room.

He looked around, taking in the overturned chair, the parchments scattered across the rumpled carpet, and came to rest on Aragorn as he knelt with Legolas beside the hearth.

"You," he growled, and started forward.

Legolas rose to his feet. "Gimli, stop. Nothing has happened."

"Because I got here in time!" Gimli said. "Out of the way, Legolas."

Legolas took two steps and caught the axe shaft on the downswing. With a quick twist he wrenched it from Gimli's hands and threw it aside. "Dainu!"1

Gimli stumbled. Regaining his balance, he turned an incredulous look upon the Elf. Aragorn was frozen to the spot, his breath swift and shallow in his lungs.

Legolas glared at them both. "I am fine," he said. "I appreciate your concern, Gimli, but I do not require your protection."

"You're a damn sight less than fine," Gimli shot back. "Durin's beard, Legolas, look at you!"

Legolas glanced down. He pulled the collar of his shirt about his neck and began to do up the buttons. "I am no worse than I was before you left. But you have torn your stitches."

A thin line of blood was seeping through the fabric of Gimli's tunic. He touched it with his fingers and then shrugged. "It's only a scratch. What happened here?"

He looked at Aragorn. Aragorn raised a hand to his face, gingerly touching the swelling around his eye. "I . . . uh . . ."

"We were talking," Legolas said.

"Talking." Gimli looked from him to Aragorn and back again. Aragorn was getting to his feet, holding onto the mantelpiece for support. "Talking about what, exactly?"

"It does not matter," Legolas said. "It is past. Aragorn, I –"

"No, damn it!" Gimli shouted. "You are not going to put me off this time, Legolas. First there was that business with Faramir in the Tower, and when you woke up in the Houses, and the palantír. He bloody well confessed at the trial. I know the Corsair did the worst of it, but I saw for myself in your memories: Aragorn hurt you. Don't give me this nonsense about the sea, or mind-rape or soul-death or any of the rest of it. Just tell me what in the name of bleeding Morgoth is going on here!"

There was a ringing silence. Aragorn looked at Legolas. Legolas met his eyes fleetingly and glanced away. The fine planes of his face shifted as his jaw tightened. Finally he turned to Gimli.

"You ask much, elvellon," he said. "But . . . you have given much as well. I will say this once, for your ears and no other's."

He took a breath. "What you saw . . . was true in part. Aragorn did attempt . . . those things . . . while under Dragaer's sway. The sea-captain led him to hurt those closest to him: Arwen, and Faramir –"

"And you," Gimli said.

Legolas nodded. "And me," he said. "In each case he strove to find some weakness, an unguarded path by which he could penetrate Aragorn's mind. He drew upon the darkness that dwells in the heart of every man: fear, and doubt, and lust. He aimed to destroy Aragorn from within."

"He very nearly succeeded," Aragorn said quietly. "He would have succeeded, but for you."

Legolas looked at him. "No," he said. "It was . . . very bad. But Aragorn resisted. And in the end he was the stronger. So Dragaer was forced to finish it himself."

Gimli frowned. "But if that's so then why did you not say so? And why were you so sick after contacting him in the palantír? Thranduil said that you had started to fade! And when you first awoke in the Houses you were terrified, you said that you would kill Aragorn! And now – for Mahal's sake, Legolas look around! Is this nothing?"

His gesture took in the debris-strewn room and Aragorn's swollen eye. Legolas sighed.

"What is known by one's waking mind is not always the same as what is felt in one's body and heart, even for an Elf. I did not say that Aragorn did no harm. Only that he did not commit those injuries which so concerned the healers of Minas Tirith." He paused and then said very quietly, "Even the deepest hurts need not necessarily be physical."

Aragorn thought of the encounter with Legolas in the palantír. He thought of the dark times before Legolas had reached him, the months of fear, the watching, the waiting, and the traps that he had laid. Do you trust me? Do you love me? Swear it. Prove it. Give yourself to me and let me know that you are mine.

A distant pain made him look down: his fists were clenched, the rough bitten nails of his fingers cutting deep into his palms. His stomach was churning.

"But why did he go to all that trouble?" Gimli said. "Dragaer. All this time mucking about with the palantír and all – he had an army for Mahal's sake! If he wanted to kill Aragorn all he had to do was ambush him sometime when he was traveling in the southlands."

"Killing me was the least of his ambitions," Aragorn said. "He wanted vengeance. I led the force that destroyed the Corsair fleet and killed his father. In his eyes I took from him his country, his birthright, his family and his people. He planned to repay me measure for measure, beginning by taking from me the people I cared for most. So ultimately I am responsible for all that has happened to you, to Imrahil, to Legolas . . ."

Legolas shot him a look. "There is one other thing for which you also bear responsibility, Aragorn. I would be dead now were it not for you. You saved my life, such as it is."

"What?" Gimli looked from one to the other of them. "What do you mean?"

"Hope is not lost," Aragorn said. "I refuse to believe that, Legolas. You have survived this and you will be healed. We will find a way."

"You were going to kill yourself," Gimli said. His brows lowered. "Throw yourself into the bloody ocean, most like. By the Seven Fathers, Legolas, that does it! I have had enough of this. I let you go after Aragorn in the Tower and you got mixed up in this business with the palantír. I let you go to Harad and you nearly died. I let you go to the Tombs and you end up fading. I let you alone for an hour just now and you're talking about suicide. Well no more! From now on you are going nowhere without me. You hear me? You go to Mirkwood, I'm going with you. You go to Ithilien, I'm going with you. You go to bloody Valinor, I'm going with you!"

There was a pause. Legolas turned away, passing a hand over his eyes. "Gimli . . ."

"And don't tell me about damned restrictions of the blasted Valar!" Gimli raged. "I'm one of the Nine Walkers. We saved the world for Mahal's sake! That counts for something! If they shut me out then every worry and grief you've cost me will be on their heads, and much good may it do them! Let them see the trouble you are and they'll be begging me to take over!"

"Gimli," Legolas began again, and then stopped. He sighed. "All right."

"They let Frodo in, and Bilbo," Gimli continued. "Gandalf even took Shadowfax with him! That bloody horse never bore any Ring! So you can't tell me –" he stopped. "What was that?"

"All right," Legolas said. He shrugged. "It does not matter in any case. The Straight Road is closed to me."

"But that's what I came to tell you!" Gimli said triumphantly. "I was just talking with the master of the shipyard. They can't build you a ship to reach Valinor but they can give us as fine a boat as there is in Middle-earth. We could sail from here 'round the coast to the Havens. It'd take a month at least, and with all that time at sea the longing is bound to come back!"

There was a pause. Aragorn leaned against the mantelpiece, his hand pressed to the back of his head. Legolas stood motionless, his arms folded as he stared at the floor. Gimli beamed at him. For several minutes there was no sound but the patter of the rain outside and the gentle drip of Gimli's clothes upon the carpet.

At last Legolas spoke. "I appreciate all that you have done, elvellon. But this is beyond you. The sea-longing is gone. It will not return."

"Unless . . ." Aragorn said slowly.

"Unless what?" Gimli said.

Aragorn looked at Legolas. "The Valar's call was lost because the sea is no longer a refuge," he said. "But if its comfort could be restored . . ."

Legolas avoided his eyes. "There is no use in speculation," he said. "What's done is done, and I have made my choice. I will stay. There is nothing to be gained by speaking further of it."

"It was the Corsair who did it," Gimli said. "Made you use this power the sea has over Elves to defend against him. So if that defense were no longer necessary then it would be all right again, wouldn't it? The sea-longing would return and you could go to Valinor and be healed."

"This is pointless," Legolas said. "I do not wish to discuss it."

"But I'm right," Gimli said. "I am right, am I not? Legolas?"

Legolas' arms were wrapped around himself, his mouth thinned as if in pain. Finally he spoke in a tone of resignation. "It could not happen unless the perversion of the sea's refuge was somehow undone and its horror forgotten."

"Then we'll do that," Gimli said. "How?"

"We cannot," Legolas said. "It is impossible."

"Durin's Beard, Legolas, stop saying that!" Gimli snapped. "There has to be a way. What is it?"

Legolas turned his face away. He did not answer.

Aragorn took a deep breath. "If the injuries that – that the sea inflicted were healed . . ."

"That's why he has to sail," Gimli said. "Thranduil said that to be healed he has to sail."

"There might be some healing yet to be found in Middle-earth," Aragorn finished in a whisper.

Legolas turned his head sharply. Their eyes met.

"You?" Gimli said. "After all that you've done, you have the gall to suggest –"

"So after all you will extract your price," Legolas said. "For Gimli's life and mine. Will you hold me to my oath, my lord?"

Aragorn's voice caught in his throat. Mutely he shook his head.

"Consider well before you swear to that, Elessar," Legolas said. "For I will never agree otherwise."

*~*~*

True to Legolas' wishes they did not speak of it again. Gimli kept his word and stuck so close to the Elf's side that for the rest of their stay in Dol Amroth Aragorn never so much as glimpsed one without the other. Legolas seemed to tolerate the Dwarf's presence fairly well provided that Gimli did not try to touch him or to hinder his movements about the palace and grounds. So far as Aragorn could tell Gimli did not actually make good his threat to sleep on the floor of Legolas' room, but it was a near thing.

For his part Aragorn tried to give the Elf his space. Legolas had to know, as he did, what must happen next. Looking back, Aragorn felt as if all the years of their friendship had been building to this. All the times that he had saved Legolas and had been saved in return, all the times that Legolas had chosen to follow him and to support him even over the wishes of his father and the needs of his people, from the march to Harad to the joining of the Fellowship all the way back to that black day in Mirkwood when Aragorn had first laid hands upon his friend and called on the healing power within himself – all had been leading to this moment when he would repay Legolas' faith and make him whole again, even of the most grievous hurts that Aragorn himself had caused.

The thought terrified him. It was one thing to offer his aid in hopes of granting Legolas some measure of peace before he sailed to the Undying Lands. It was another matter entirely to place himself as the last defense between his friend and an eternity of torment.

What if he could not do it? Nay – how could he imagine himself capable of it? The shadow over Legolas grew heavier by the day. He could see it in the darkness behind his friend's eyes, in the pallor of his skin, in the eloquent tale of pain told by every guarded step, every catch of breath, every half-second too long that Legolas paused mid-stride with eyes closed and brows drawn together before continuing on.

Aragorn had caused that. How arrogant, how ludicrously arrogant would he be to assume that he could wave a hand and make Legolas well again. The injuries Legolas bore went deeper than anything Aragorn had before encountered. His physical wounds were only the superficial signs of the far greater damage done to his mind and spirit, of the fracturing of the bond between body and soul. How could Aragorn hope to counter that? What gave him the right even to try? After all that he had done, how could he ask Legolas to trust him again? And if by some miracle Legolas did come to him, if he tried and failed, then that would be yet another betrayal in the long line of cruelties that he had inflicted on his friend.

By all indications Legolas shared his doubts. I will never agree, he had said, unless Aragorn commanded it in payment for Gimli's life, for the oath he had forced upon the Elf on that terrible night in Harad.

The thought sickened him. Even beyond his natural inclinations, healing of this kind could only happen as a free choice between healer and patient. When Faramir had been lost after the pyre Aragorn had called to him, searching in the dark passages of his wounded spirit, but Faramir had answered of his own free will.

Aragorn could not order Legolas to submit. He would not. But the alternative was that he must stand helpless and watch as the friend he loved sank ever deeper into darkness and misery.

For as long as Aragorn lived, Legolas had said, he would remain. But for all the Elf's brave words he was dying now, fading before Aragorn's eyes. Legolas endured by the sheer strength of his will, but for how long? With every day the weight of shadow grew, the pressure bearing him down like a steel blade bent slowly, inexorably to the breaking point.

How long could he continue thus? A week? A month? How long could anyone survive it? And how long must Aragorn bear witness to his suffering . . . and do nothing.

*~*~*

The morning of Imrahil's funeral dawned cool and clear. The previous night's storm had washed away the grime from the walls and houses of Dol Amroth. The rising sun caught the glitter of raindrops in the windows and eaves, and every white stone and shell and bit of colored glass shone as though newly made.

The rocky shore was littered with driftwood washed up by the waves: great logs bleached white and pitted with salt, rotting sections of mast and barnacled planks still nailed to the curved hull of a long forgotten shipwreck, fragments of rope and nets tangled with vivid green seaweed.

Picking his way through the mess Faramir thought of the countless times that he had walked this shore as a boy. His mother had loved the home of her birth and returned as often as her husband would permit. They used to spend whole summers here, Finduilas and her two children, retreating from the noise and heat of Minas Tirith to the clean seaside.

Constrained by the duties of the Stewardship Denethor had remained in the city, so for whole months at a time Faramir would be free of the weight of his father's expectations, free of the silent, coolly assessing gaze, the constant balancing of the scales between himself and his brother.

He and Boromir would wander the shore for hours, climbing over and around the driftwood piled at the high tide line, prying limpets from the rocks, pretending that they were Princes of the Faithful Númenoreans living in hiding from the evil Ar-Pharazôn until they could reclaim their land.

As they grew older Boromir's interest in these games waned and he began to spend more and more time with the Knights of Dol Amroth, helping to groom their horses, watching their sparring practices, listening to their tales of glory on the battlefield. Five-year-old Faramir was not permitted to explore the seaside alone and Nurse complained that the uneven ground hurt her feet, so he was confined to the palace grounds with Boromir.

It was not a happy confinement. The warrior tales did not much interest Faramir, and Boromir, eager to appear grown-up before the Knights, disliked having his younger brother tag along. Unable to persuade Boromir to play with him, Faramir moped through the palace alone. Most of all he wanted to explore outside, and he grew cranky and irritable at being denied.

Occasionally his mother would take him with her on her sedate walks along the shore, but she never wanted to go beyond sight of the palace, and she grew nervous if he climbed on the piles of driftwood or the great rocks that were exposed when the tide went out. Faramir chafed under these restrictions and Mother grew frustrated with his rebellion, so that by the time they returned to the palace they were both tired and their tempers frayed. In later years Faramir realized that the adults must have discussed the situation and come to a solution, but at the time he was unaware of it. All he knew was that as the summer went on he found himself more and more frequently in the company of his uncle, Imrahil.

If Imrahil was anything, he was patient. He was more than patient enough for a five-year-old's questions and he always knew the answers. More than that, he was completely unperturbed by the mishaps that would have brought Mother running or made Father scowl in disapproval. When Faramir fell while climbing a steep slope to investigate the seabirds' nests Imrahil watched as he picked himself up, examined a scrape on his knee with mild interest, and told him to try it again. When Faramir slipped on a wet rock and plunged neck deep into a crevasse among the breakwater Imrahil fished him out and gave him the choice of returning to the palace or simply spreading his clothes out to dry and continuing to play in his smallclothes.

It was a liberating experience for Faramir, who found himself free to do as he liked for the first time in his life without interference from parents or nurse or older brother. Indeed Imrahil seemed so habitually calm, almost indifferent in comparison to Mother's doting care and Father's never-ceasing watchfulness, that Faramir thought at times that he could have been injured or swept away by a freak wave and it would not have troubled his uncle overmuch.

But as the summer wore on Faramir came to change his mind about that. Imrahil was always kind to him, in his own undemonstrative way, and if he was not emotional then he was also gentle and attentive. He had a dry way of speaking, of saying more than his words would seem, that reminded Faramir of Denethor. But there was a vein of deep affection beneath his uncle's surface that Faramir had not found in his father, and he reached toward it hungrily.

At Imrahil's side he learned the secrets of the plants and animals that lived along the seashore. He lay on his stomach and dangled his hand into tide pools to tickle the sea anemones, feeling the tiny sting of their tentacles like the petals of a flower sticky against his fingers. And when they did not go to the shore he would more often than not while the hours away in Imrahil's study, drawing with a stick of charcoal on a slate while his uncle's quill scratched quietly over his parchments, or watching with rapt attention while Imrahil's quick hands fashioned a slip of paper into the form of a bird or a ship or a deer.

He had been happy here, Faramir thought. Even in the dark years that had followed his mother's death Imrahil had been a constant light. In his uncle's quiet presence Faramir had found respite from the burdens of his brother's achievements, of his father's judgment, of his own expectations of himself.

His steps had carried him away from the shoreline to where the broken rock met the grassy fields of the mainland. Swift growing beach grass stood knee high, already dried a golden brown by the sun and the constant wind. Wildflowers bobbed on long stems: scattered slips of white, yellow and red amidst the bronze.

A hill rose here above the beach, offering a vantage point where as a boy Faramir had sat to watch the gulls diving over the bay. He climbed the slope now, stumbling a little over the uneven clumps of grass. He gained the summit, his breath coming hard in his lungs, and stopped. Legolas was standing a short distance away, looking out over the bay. Beyond him was Gimli. The Dwarf was stretched upon the grass, his head propped on a flat rock, his hands laced over his stomach and his axe at his side. He was snoring.

Faramir hesitated, thinking to retreat back down the hill, but then Legolas turned his head and looked at him. The Elf's gaze was neutral, neither welcoming nor forbidding, but having once been seen Faramir could not very well turn tail and leave.

"Good morning," he said. Legolas nodded and looked away. Faramir blinked, stung by this apparent rejection. He was about to retreat when the Elf spoke.

"It is beautiful."

Faramir paused. He looked past Legolas to the bay. The water rolled in slow swells and the surf was muted to a low roar. The far horizon was obscured by a bank of low fog that glinted white in the early sunshine. Gulls wheeled over the shore, their raucous cries carrying in the cool morning air.

"I have always thought so," Faramir said. "I used to come up here as a boy. It has not changed much."

"No," Legolas said softly. "It has not." He drew a breath. "I never really looked at it before. The sea. All my thought was turned toward it, at times it seemed as though I would be consumed by it, but I never truly saw it as it is, for itself alone. How odd."

"The sea has special meaning for the Eldar, or so I am told," Faramir said. He spoke cautiously, unsure of Legolas' reaction. From what Imrahil had described of the Elf's visits here before the sea was not merely significant for him. There was a power there that even Imrahil had not fully understood. It was a fascination bordering on obsession.

But Legolas only smiled, a little sadly it seemed to Faramir. "So I am told," he said. He turned to Faramir. "There were occasions when I was grateful for your uncle's hospitality. He was a great lord, wise and gentle to those who knew him, and a proud defender of his people and his country."

"Thank you," Faramir said. His throat was tight. "He would be honored to hear a Prince of the Sindar speak so."

"It is to honor him that I speak," Legolas said. "In him was the seed of Gondor made great again, even in the hour of its waning. We are all the poorer for his loss." He paused. "I regret the role that I played in causing his death."

Faramir blinked. He must have misheard that last statement. "I'm sorry?"

"I was a part of the ruse by which the Corsairs gained entrance to Minas Tirith," Legolas said. "Had they not done so it is doubtful that their army could have breached the walls. The battle in which Imrahil died might have been avoided."

"That was no fault of yours," Faramir said. He thought back to that fateful night, of the men standing silently before the gate, of the Corsairs' weapons piled to one side and the pale, cold figure stretched upon a makeshift litter in the flickering torchlight. If only we had imprisoned them all from the start. If only we had not been so trusting . . . or not so mistrustful of Elessar. If only everything had been different.

Aloud he said, "There is blame to share, if one looks for it, but none of it is yours. If anything the fault is mine. I should have paid greater heed to King Elessar's warning."

"From what Gimli tells me you acted as any rational lord would," Legolas answered. "The Corsair party was only twelve and under guard. And Aragorn had given you no reason for trust."

"No," Faramir said slowly. "He had not." Something occurred to him then, and he cocked an eyebrow at the Elf. "I acted as 'any rational lord would' . . .? I seem to recall a tale of your father, who was not so lenient when confronted with a similar number of Dwarves in his Kingdom."

"Ah, that," Legolas smiled. "But my lord Faramir, who in all of our history has ever accused the rulers of Mirkwood of being rational?"

Faramir laughed. "In any case that episode ended better for you than this has for us, so who is to say that the Elvenking was wrong?"

They did not speak for a time. In the silence Gimli's snores grew louder, and then he snorted and turned on his side. He muttered something before falling into deeper sleep. Legolas turned his head to look at him. His eyes softened.

"He is standing guard over me."

Faramir smiled. "And doing an excellent job of it I see."

"Do not underestimate him. The climb up here taxed him greatly, but he would not be dissuaded. He would rise quickly if there were need."

"And woe befall any who opposed him," Faramir said. "I am not the man to do so."

They fell quiet again, watching the motion of the waves and the diving birds. Then Faramir sighed. "Dragaer played us all, didn't he? Right from the beginning. He knew how we would react and laid his traps accordingly."

Legolas did not answer for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice was soft, as though he were speaking to himself. "So it would seem. And in some cases he knew us better than we knew ourselves."

He shook himself and turned to Faramir. "If I may ask, what was it that made you believe that Aragorn had thrown off the Corsair's influence?"

Faramir thought. "I think I first knew it when he returned to Minas Tirith. He was filthy, exhausted, but his only thought was for the Queen, and for you. He was desperate to reach you."

Legolas flinched. It was a small movement but Faramir saw it. He continued quickly. "At the time I did not allow myself to believe it. I had been fooled by Elessar before and the stakes were too great. We arrested him. We brought him to trial, but by then it was too late. The Corsairs attacked."

"All according to plan," Legolas muttered. He looked up. "It was after the trial, then, that you swore allegiance to him?"

Faramir hesitated. "Not exactly," he admitted. "There were still questions to be answered, safeguards created so that Gondor could not again be put at risk by any one man. The Council gave Gondor's rule to both the King and the Queen . . . and to the Steward," he added as an afterthought. "But for myself I knew my heart's allegiance when I saw him with the wounded after the battle. He gave everything of himself in tending them. I saw him lay his hands on men writhing in pain, men whose limbs had been severed, men whose skin was burned black over most of their bodies, and I saw them look at him and smile. No man with evil in his heart could do that. He is Gondor's rightful King."

Legolas did not answer. For a while they stood silent, watching the bay while the growing sunlight sparkled on the water. The breeze ruffled their hair. Finally Legolas spoke.

"If you had to choose," he said. "If you had to trust Aragorn with that which is most sacred to you – if you had to trust him with your daughter's life, would you do it?"

Faramir blinked. "You speak hypothetically, I presume," he said. "If she were injured . . ."

"Yes," Legolas said. "If she were injured and in pain – great pain. You could aid her, perhaps keep her alive for a time, but you could not heal her. If you had to choose to care for her yourself or to give her into Elessar's hands – what would you do?"

"I would still be with her," Faramir began.

Legolas shook his head. "No. In this choice you would be helpless, unable to do anything against him. Once you give her to him you are powerless. You may watch as he does what he will with her, but you may not stop him."

"You speak as though I would have cause to stop him," Faramir said.

Legolas' gaze was intense. "You might," he said. "Hypothetically . . . you might."

Faramir took a breath. He thought of that night in the Tower, when Elessar had looked at him with a stranger's eyes and reached to draw his sword . . . and Legolas' hand had closed upon his wrist and stopped him. He thought of Aragorn's regret and grief in the aftermath of the battle. He thought of the warm weight of Finduilas as he held her in his arms, of her sweet smell and the surprisingly strong power of her grip upon his finger. He licked his lips.

"I would," he said. "I would do everything in my power to spare her that kind of suffering."

"Including giving her to Aragorn," Legolas said.

"Yes," Faramir said. "If there were any chance that he could save her, then yes. I would."

Legolas sighed. He looked away and in that moment his slender frame bent, his shoulders curving fractionally inward as he wrapped his arms around himself. "I think that you are braver than I am."

*~*~*

They laid Imrahil to rest that afternoon. The sun was shining in a sky scudded with white clouds and a fresh wind was blowing as the people of Dol Amroth gathered to bury their Prince and his Knights. The funeral train wound from the streets of the city along the sea road up to the high bluff where lay the burial ground.

They went on foot, commoners and nobility alike. Many wore strings of shells and pebbles around their ankles and wrists and these clicked together as they walked. It was said that the sound mimicked the clacking of bones and would alert the Valar to draw near, to receive the dead and to ward off the evil spirits that served Morgoth.

Lothíriel daughter of Imrahil was at their head with Éomer on her right and Faramir at her left. Elessar King of Gondor was there also, and Legolas Lord of Ithilien, and between them walked Gimli Lord of Aglarond leaning on his stick.

They came to the high place where rested the caskets of Prince Imrahil and his Knights upon the turf. A casket had been made for Imrahil, but that was a luxury that few of the Knights' families could afford. Fifty bodies wrapped in linen were laid across the bluff and beside each one there was a hole and a mound of dirt and rock. As the company climbed over the summit the stiff wind caught at their hair and cloaks, carrying the mingled scents of the ocean salt and of damp earth.

They gathered around the graves, each family to that of their own kin – for the men of Dol Amroth had dug them with their own hands that morning. They stood then in silence with heads bowed and for long minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the rasp of Gimli's breathing.

Then Lothíriel began to sing. Low and clear her voice rose, carried thinly on the wind. The tune was sweet and sad and somehow familiar to Aragorn's ears, though he could not quite place it. The words too hovered on the edge of knowing. They were in a language he did not recognize – not of the Common tongue, nor any Gondorian dialect he knew. Almost they sounded of Elven make, but there again not quite.

Then, as the last note trailed away, Legolas lifted his head. And as the Elf's clear tenor rose Aragorn caught his breath. For Legolas was singing not merely in answer to Lothíriel, but in completion of the song that she had begun. And now Aragorn recognized it: a mourning song so ancient that even the Elves referred to it only in the old ballads. The melody followed the same structure as Lothíriel had sung but built upon it, like a forest springing up deep and rich from where had stood a single sapling. The words were Quenyan, and where before they had been mere shadows of themselves, sounds with meaning forgotten, now they rang with the precise clarity of that tongue.

The sun is gone, the moon forgot,

No light can come in shadow.

Hark Lórien, give ear Nienna, and let Varda's stars be dimmed.

For our Prince is lost, the land is dark,

And we must weep alone.

When the song ended Lothíriel turned to Legolas and though the tears streaked her face her eyes were shining.

"For generations beyond count have the people of Dol Amroth sung that song, and yet until this day I did not know its meaning. For this above all would my father thank you, and entreat you to write it out for us that it not be forgotten again."

"That will I be glad to do, for his sake and for yours, my lady," Legolas replied. "He was a great lord . . . and I was honored to call him friend."

The people came forward then to bury their Prince. Lothíriel cast the first shovelful of earth after the casket was lowered into the grave. Her white hands gripped the short handle tightly, dipping and lifting and turning the blunt blade. The wet earth hit the casket with a hollow thud. She did not flinch but stepped back and handed the shovel to Faramir. Then it was Aragorn's turn. He bent his back to lift the heavy earth, and as it thudded into the grave a vision came to him with such power that it stopped his breath.

It was not Imrahil that they were burying. It was Legolas.

He knew it for a certainty: he could see the Elf lying in the casket, his long hands folded around the bow of Lothlórien, the bow that he would never shoot again. He saw Legolas' hair spilling over his shoulders, his skin waxy, stretched over the prominence of his cheekbones, his closed eyes sunken. He saw the plain casket lowered here, where the sea's song would forever play to his unheeding ears. He saw Thranduil standing with the tears forgotten on his cheeks, staring over the bay while the wind tugged at his cloak and hair. He saw Gimli with chunks torn from his new-grown beard, eyes red-rimmed with grief and rage. He saw Arwen weeping with her hair unbound, streaming dark in the wind. He saw himself, his face lined and grey with age and misery, and he felt the force of his own grief and guilt and self-loathing like a sword thrust to cut him in two.

Then it was gone. Aragorn staggered. Éomer, taking the shovel from him, cast him a concerned look but Aragorn had no eyes for it. He stared about wildly and his gaze fell upon Legolas, standing between Lothíriel and Gimli exactly has he had been before.

Aragorn heart began to beat again. He felt weak with relief: it had not happened. Legolas still lived, there was still time. But he knew with a certainty that resonated deep within his bones: this was a vision of the Sight. It was what would come to pass if they continued on this path, if nothing were changed.

Feeling his gaze, Legolas lifted his head and met Aragorn's eyes. The Elf's look was direct, challenging, and Aragorn glanced away.

Does he know? he wondered. Then he thought, he is an Elf. Of course he knows.

All around him the people were filling in the graves of their loved ones, burying their husbands, fathers, sons – brave and loving men who would still be alive were it not for him.

Aragorn stood in the midst of them all and lifted his eyes to the heavens, where the wind drove the clouds in long sweeps across the blue sky and the gulls wheeled crying between the twin infinities of air and sea.

Our Prince is lost, the land is dark . . . no light can come in shadow. He thought of the words – Legolas' words – and his hands clenched unnoticed at his sides. No. Not this time. I cannot bring back the dead but I will not lose him too. I will not.

He did not speak aloud. There was none to hear the oath of his heart but his own mind and the empty wind and the Valar themselves if they were of a mood to listen. But it was an oath nonetheless.


1 Dainu: Khuzdul, enough.