The End of the Third Age

–

Disclaimer: I do not own ANY of the characters or places that are associated with "The Lord of the Rings". They all belong to the extraordinary and most beloved Professor J.R.R. Tolkien. I do own several O.C's, soldiers, captains, maids, etc. You will know them because their names are unfamiliar. Apart from these, I take no credit for the characters and the setting whatsoever. Also, several ideas may have been inspired by other authors' writings, and though I can't remember to list every way they've inspired me, my complete and utter thanks for it nonetheless.

Whenever there are Elves and/or Aragorn having conversations amongst themselves, know that they are always speaking Elvish. It's not specified within the story every time because I felt as though it would take away from what was happening to say it outright, but the dialogue, though written in English, by all accounts is spoken Elvish.

I base my Elrond, Elrohir, Elladan, and Aragorn relationships on the fact that I believe that they were more a family than anything else. I'm religious about the fact Tolkien gives us; that Aragorn left with the Duedain Rangers as soon as his relationship with the Peredhil family was destroyed after he fell in love with Arwen. Before then, Tolkien is pretty clear about a young Aragorn being accepted in their family. After Arathon was slain, Lord Elrond took Aragorn and Gilrean into Imladris when Aragorn was a just a baby, and even Tolkien said that "Elrond took him in and loved him as his own son". This is family, and this is how I portray them.

Now. Let's dive right in, shall we?

–

Chapter One

"Nothing is evil in the beginning."

– Elrond Peredhil

–

Riding at last through the seventh gate of Minas Tirith and coming into the High Court, Legolas leaned over Anaryn's neck and ran a gentle hand down the horse's shoulder. He was planning on thanking his faithful friend for yet another swift and smooth journey, but apparently Anaryn was much too put out for such things. Before he could form a word the horse feigned a stumble – a childish two-step more like – and pretended nearly to throw him. Legolas rolled his eyes, reigning him back down the path and tugging on his mane. "Yes, my old friend, lots of levels, lots of ramps, lots of stairs. How could I dare ever bring you to such an ending of our journey when you are simply far too beautiful and far too precious, mm?"

Minas Tirith's courtyard, when they entered it – Anaryn with a snort – was little different from the previous year's first day of the month of May. Nearly just as full and busy as when hundreds had gathered there for the coronation of the King. Legolas saw many different faces looking back at him as he made his way slowly towards the fountain; mostly Gondorian, but there were several rougher types, seeming to be from Bree. The only faces he missed were those of his own kin. The Elves, after helping to restore Gondor from the wounds of war, had left it to return to their homelands and prepare for whatever the end of the age would bring to them. It had been seven months to the day since Legolas had resided in the white city and it felt in some way freeing to be able to marvel at how beautiful and alive it was without the weight of Sauron's threat pushing all shoulders towards the ground.

It wasn't long before Legolas decided to dismount and lead Anaryn instead, taking extra care to make sure that his sulking horse didn't accidently clip a too-close passerby. "Peace, little one," he murmured to him with a grin. "I know you'll soon be pampered like a Mearas. These stables are wonderful."

"Lord Legolas!"

He did not recognize the young guard that hurried across the court towards him, but he knew Aragorn wouldn't have kept it secret that he would be arriving sometime this week. He smiled warmly at the Gondorian as Anaryn's reins were taken. "The King is waiting for you in the throne room, my lord. I trust your ride went without any trouble?"

"Very much. I must tell you, my friend, the fields have been kept wonderfully, and your streets are smooth and clear. Your people are doing good work restoring Minas Tirith."

"As did yours, my lord." Legolas didn't miss the sparkle of pride in the young man's eyes – it made his smile widen, though he tried to stifle it in fear of the Gondorian feeling mocked. "The Elves have helped us learn how to rebuild. and also to grow. Even I. We've never really had that much passionate want to plant before; but now my brother and father and I can't get enough of our garden. I'd heard talks of my city being this full of life but I'd never dared hope to live long enough to see it restored. Yet here I stand."

"Indeed you do. You should hold tight to your pride. I and my people have been honored to be a part of restoring your home. Hannon le, my friend. Do not forget, as your garden grows, nurture your plants with purposeful hands and they will return it tenfold." Smile warming, Legolas clapped the guard on the shoulder before stepping around him and making his way into the rest of the people milling about the courtyard. He'd barely made it five steps down the path around the fountain when a familiar voice called from above, "Legolas; finally!"

Legolas' heart filled with joy as he watched Aragorn push through the Great Doors and, quite plainly, sprint down the stairs. The man's expression mimicked the warmth in his heart, their eyes meeting and identical grins splitting their faces. "There are too many roads in your city!" he yelled, his own stride quickening; laughing as Aragorn shooed away the guards that tried to flank him as he ran. The poor men were probably gently and apologetically encouraging him not to run because technically it was unbecoming. He'd just opened his mouth to yell something at his friend about setting an example when suddenly one of the folk milling about him stepped directly into his path. Even with the finesse of his people Legolas did not have enough time to stop in his surprise and he felt his shoulder hit the other's. He could not see their face; the man was clad in a cloak and hood that concealed it; and he grabbed Legolas' arm to pull him close and quietly whisper in his ear, "Consider this an omen, Prince."

Before Legolas could say a word the stranger released his arm and moved off, instantly lost in the crowd. A chill ran down his spine. He took one last desperate look of the people who had blocked the man from view and had just turned to call for guards when the foreboding that had filled his heart took form.

The form of a scream.

"Arwen!"

Shock rippled through the courtyard as the shrill voice of a woman split the air; Legolas' eyes instantly found a tower to the left of the King's House. He watched in horror as a palace maid leapt to her feet behind the balustrade of the balcony. The front of her gown was streaked with blood. "Guards – my lord; Lady Arwen has been shot!"

Legolas' heart went cold. Aragorn had turned the same way he had at the woman's scream; he did not see the reaction of the words on his friend's face as the man sprinted up the same stairs he'd been flying down moments before, his voice tearing out of him in a primal, horrified command, "Guards – my chambers!"

"Aragorn!" he shouted, but of course he was unheard. The crowd had erupted into a terrified frenzy at the sight of blood and the threat of violence; already most of them were fleeing the courtyard. There were hundreds of desperate voices trying to make sense of what had happened and rising up in cries of fear.

"The Queen has been shot!"

"Archers; take cover!"

"We are under attack!"

Legolas was still in the same spot when he saw him through the chaos. The stranger. Standing at the arch of the path into the next level of the city, his face was still hidden in his hood – but Legolas knew instantly that he was staring at him. He watched a shadowy grin flicker across the man's face before he turned and disappeared down the hall of stone.

For a single moment Legolas' heart went still within his chest. He stood, completely torn. Torn between the instinctual urge to fly after the stranger and bear down on him with rage and the grief-stricken urge to fly after his friends.

He chose instinct. Drawing in a full breath to center himself, he leapt into a run, shoving against the back of the first Gondorian soldier he passed and shouting back at him, "Follow; now!" The man obeyed. By the time he'd finally regained view of the dark green hood, it was darting down an alley between two houses – the first houses Legolas saw once he'd emerged from the tunnel into the sixth level of the city. By now there were at least fifteen of Gondor's men following him down the street. Another few had darted in the opposite direction, to the House, to tell the King and everyone who would listen that they were on him. That they would catch him. Legolas refused to believe otherwise as his legs propelled him into the dark alley and after the figure that ducked just out of reach. He skidded around the house and then over a stone wall. Curses slipped from Legolas' lips as he jumped after him, pushing against a window garden with one foot and throwing himself over at a better angle.

He'd thought that he would land and set off with more balance than his prey. What he landed in front of instead was the glint of small steel at the end of a perfectly aligned arrow. The inner finesse of his people was the only thing, Legolas knew, that saved his life. The moment that he saw the arrow he spun on his heel and dove upwards, his tunic catching on the rough sill of the window as he sailed through it. He curled his body and rolled up to the balls of his feet, hands already outstretched in apology to whatever tenant whose home he'd just invaded.

The house was empty. Legolas sucked in another centering breath and propelled himself through the door, out into the sun and the noise. The breath hadn't even completely filled his lungs before he felt it falter, curl in his chest, choking him. He could see no one. No one but the frightened people of Gondor. The sharp, silver sound of soldiers rounding the corner of the house filled his ears and he turned to the first one he saw, eyes still raking the streets desperately for any sort of sign – a sign he knew was not there.

"Send men; as many as you can; send them now. He will continue to descend the city so you must send riders out and try to cut him off. Get word to every wall century and raise the alarm – we must keep the townsfolk under close eye and make sure no one can infiltrate or harm them. Act on the suspicion that there is an unknown number of those assisting and that it could be any of the people in this city. Do not hesitate to approach suspicion with force."

When he turned to leave them, one of them reached out to block his way with his blade. "Lord, I am with you."

Legolas did not feel even an inkling of guilt through the terror and adrenaline pounding around inside his skull. "You would not be able to keep up. Go."

–

The beauty that was the expanse of the House did not register in Legolas' mind as he followed the line of silver – silver helms and spears that led him to where the heart of Gondor was being shielded. Cold sweat stuck his clothes to his skin, his heart was lodged in his throat, his hands shook at his sides – he resented each step he took more than the one before it. He did not want to move towards the carnage that he knew awaited him. Each new image of a dead Elf-maiden or weeping man that slithered towards his conscious he viciously batted down; there was no room for them now. He approached this as he would any other battle. It's the only way he knew his heart would not fail him.

Eventually he saw Haythalm. Elessar's second in command to chief of the Guard, and a man that both he and the King had befriended and trusted more than most. He stood in front of a large and beautiful brown door, flecked with gold and opal. It was a sturdy door, probably carven and decorated by hands that had lovingly placed each spot of light hundreds and thousands of years ago. Legolas knew and hated what was behind that door. Carnage.

"Master Haythalm."

The man turned sharply at the sound of his voice. Legolas had to ignore the tickle in his throat as Haythalm took hold of his shoulder and squeezed, clear, sorrowful eyes meeting his. "The men say you nearly had him. I'm proud of you."

His friend's kind words did not manage to touch the mangled mess of his mind. Clenching his jaw, Legolas avoided looking at the door with everything in him. "Nearly is not enough. Any news?"

"Since you've got back? You're the first one here, Prince, you know that." A small smile danced at the corner of Haythalm's lips, but almost instantly it was shadowed by rage. "There is nothing. Nor an update on the Queen. He disappeared. Someone is helping him; I'm going to find out who, that is an oath I've already made."

"To the King?" Legolas asked quietly.

"I have yet to speak with him." Haythalm's gaze softened; he knew his dread. He used the grip he had of Legolas' shoulder to gently nudge him towards the door. "He has not stopped asking if you've returned. He's worried something happened."

Legolas felt as though his feet had become roots and curled into the stone floor, digging so deep that he could not move them, but Haythalm's hand did not waver. It was a steady, reassuring weight towards what Legolas knew he must do. "You are wanted, Lord Legolas. Go."

There was a rush of sounds that poured over him first when he pushed into the room. Awful sounds. Panic choked into questions, misplaced rage in commands, confusion and fear in answers. Soon those sounds had homes in what he saw; there was Ruhin, the healer, across the stone table, his eyes glittering with both focus and terror as he looked imploringly up at a maid and took from her something silver and small. Legolas squinted for a moment, zoning in on that small glint of light while he continued to try to ignore the limp body that lay on the table underneath it.

But then another healer stepped in front of the blade and suddenly Aragorn was in front of him before his mind had even registered that anyone was approaching. Terrified eyes met his and Legolas quickly reached out, pulling his friend into his arms just as Aragorn's legs seemed to buckle. The King's entire body heaved against him as he sobbed into his shoulder, "Thank you–"

"No." Another icy blade of guilt twisted through him and he shook his head, holding his friend like iron. He had finally let his eyes focus on Arwen and now he could not look away. The way her mouth lay open while her eyes lay closed, the way her legs were twisted limply underneath her, the way her blood ran in rivulets under her ribs, up her chest, across her chin. The taunt shoulders of the man in his arms were testament to the terror of watching his wife bleed out. "Tell me."

The Elf's words seemed to shake him. Aragorn clung to the command and pulled back, running a rough hand across his face. His fingers were caked with blood. "The arrow broke two of her ribs. It missed all of her vital organs, but one of… A broken rib pierced the lung. She... she can't breathe, Legolas." And there his voice broke slightly, his eyes flying to the table when a man shouted for another rag. "We're cutting into the skin under the wound; removing the rib to reset it. I tried, I… it was supposed to be me but my… my hands."

Legolas nodded, curling his fingers gently around Aragorn's elbow, but he almost scoffed at himself. It was such a hollow gesture of comfort, standing there in front of Arwen bleeding to death. "They have remained your healers for a reason; you've trained them well and they work with your hands. Aragorn." He used the grip he had of the King's arm to turn him, waiting until Aragorn met his eyes before continuing. "He spoke to me. Just before she was shot. I don't know him but he told me that this attack is an omen. That was the word he used. Omen."

Aragorn's eyes were nearly black, with shock now as well as terror. "In the courtyard? He spoke to you in the courtyard?"

Legolas opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly there was pain. Intense pain. Agony. Blossoming out like a flower through his chest, lancing down through his stomach, his legs – it was unusual, something he had never experienced before. Like ice being shot from the center of his heart and beating out into his veins. No, not ice, he thought, just as he realized that he could not draw in or let go of a full breath. Not ice. Burning.

"Aragorn, I–" His voice sounded odd in his own ears. He still had a hold of the King's elbow and he squeezed, choking on nothing. "I can't feel my legs."

For a moment there was total incomprehension on Aragorn's face as he stared at him, obviously startled by the words. "What?"

"Something is wrong." The world was beginning to blur around the edges of his eyes. He felt Aragorn grab his other arm as his legs gave out. His friend caught him quickly and walked him backwards against a chair, trying to prop him up. He used the last of the control he had of his failing limbs to push back, grab the King's shoulders, stare at him desperately. "I have no wound, Aragorn, but I can't breathe and there is burning everywhere."

"What else?" Aragorn asked, already pressing a palm against his forehand so he could tip his head back and frantically study his eyes. "What else do you feel?"

"It burns." He could think of no other word to describe it. The pain was excruciating as he fought for breath, forcing his lungs to expand even through the fire; through the thickness in his throat. He clung to Aragorn's shoulders, willing his friend to feel the importance of his words. He was absolutely terrified. "Don't let anything distract you. Don't let anything slip past you; you call our allies and you find who did this – you stay alive; do you understand me?"

The black spots dancing in his eyes finally won before he could say more. Suddenly his whole body flashed cold and the darkness rushed up, silent and massive, swallowing the rest of the strength he had and the sounds of the room; the last of his consciousness that clung to the light. The final thing he felt was Aragorn falling to his knees to keep him held close and the guilt of hearing him beg, "My friend, stay with me – Legolas, stay with—"

–

"Elladan."

Elladan Peredhel turned at the sound of his name. His brother, Elrohir, had silently approached him where he stood at the edge of camp. The sun was glowing now and he nearly had not noticed the change, standing stiff and unaware as the night turned to day.

He was unable to find peace. For the past four days, something had been swirling round his thoughts, pushing, pulling at him. Something is wrong. Elladan had not a single clue what it might be. Things had been very quiet; peaceful and still in Imladris. Even as more of his kin left for the Shores, all the same it seemed that with the fall of Sauron there was a new lightness and joy that had settled over the Firstborn that remained there, in The Last Homely House. More laughing, more singing, more dancing. He and his kin were currently long into a peaceful excursion of riding, hunting, and feasting.

Yet the forebodence had taken hold of his heart despite all of this. He was not as clear in his foresight as his father, but he felt it. He felt the fear. The sensation of the entire world holding its breath. Reeling from a blow. Bursting to tell him of it.

He just did not know what it was.

He turned away from the glowing green trees to face his brother. "Yes?"

Elrohir stopped several paces away, his arms stiff at his sides. "A rider intercepted our camp, carrying a message for Imladris," he said quietly. "It is from Gondor."

He saw now that Elrohir's eyes were full of tears and instantly he knew what his heart had been warning him of and he never wished he'd ever wanted to. "Arwen."

His brother closed the last few paces between them and reached out. He put up a sharp hand, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the way his heart had now simply stopped beating. "Tell me."

Still, his brother did not. He did not need to. Instead his quiet words were, "We ride as soon as father is ready."

–

The sun had set.

He was finally alone. Finally he could breathe. Think. There was a gentle breeze with the darkness, lifting his hair and caressing his travel worn skin. Still, with miles upon miles, he nearly felt nothing. He did not tire. He did not weaken. It was almost as if there was a holy rightness to his tasks; as if the Valar had blessed his journey. As if they, too, sought to see things put right, to see balance restored. He had felt a compelling energy constantly fueling both his mind and his body ever since he had decided to pull himself from the earth, and begin this hunt.

The hum of the tree he sat in was quiet. He hardly seemed to notice the ancient beings anymore; only when he was touching them could he hear their song. Every time he sat amongst their boughs he thought of this, and many long years ago he had ceased to care. He let go of the worn branch and rested his elbow on his knee as he watched those of his companions that sat against the wall of the beacon tower. He had hoped to be settled in sooner, but it was just as well. He preferred darkness. It had become a protective cloak to him now on this path that he walked; it had allowed him to finally reach out for his prey.

It was far too easy. The man was a King now, an entire host at his command; still he was vulnerable. His soldiers – his army – were barely an obstacle. But then there were the Elves. The beguiled. The allies. The entire hold of Imladris, and the Prince of Greenwood. They, for reasons he had obsessed over for decades, puzzled over and grieved over; they were loyal to the man who now sat on Gondor's throne. Fiercely loyal. He was not naive. He knew the danger these Eldar posed. He had experienced firsthand their wrath many years ago. Nearly none of them had escaped with their lives.

Despite his complete revulsion for the race of Men, their stupidity – their youth – had become a gift to him in this. Ever since his very first meeting with his very first mortal pawn. Always they fell directly into line. It had taken only one of his companions to dispose of seven men that guarded the beacon. Seven arrows, and seven quiet, meaningless deaths. Before them even more, as they killed scouting and roaming parties to avoid being reported.

He had wondered from the beginning of his plans if he would feel intimidated once he was near the white city. Especially as they waited for the rest of his following to arrive. But he did not. Even as he let its walls swallow him whole, guide him to his prize, he felt no fear. Instead in its place was utterly delicious joy. Once he had made his way back to the beacon he had nearly wanted to send his kin back to Minas Tirith simply to wander; he knew that in small numbers they would blend in. He wanted them to smell the promise of pain there. He wanted them to know. Yes, they followed him, but he wanted them to know. But he knew that they did not, and he knew that he was alone in this.

His army might have been ignorant, but they were loyal. And they were effective. Even more effective had it only consisted of his kin, but the men that had recruited were a necessity. He knew that they were eager for what he had promised them; that his lies would be wind under their feet. It filled him with glee. The trustful nature of men. Their readiness to bare their necks. Soon they would be here, exhausted but obedient, flooding around the first of the seven beacon-hills of Gondor.

This was the perfect place now for he and his kin to rest. They needed rest. They knew not their next order, but they were to be pliable and strong when next he called upon them. He found that parts of his mind and heart kept urging him to move too soon; often he had to speak to himself almost as if he were speaking to a child, urging patience instead. He knew well that patience was what had gotten him here. So beautifully close to his prey. Amon Dîn was nearest of the towers to Minas Tirith, located in the eastern end of the Druadan Forest. The rocky landscaping of the hill made it an excellent place to conceal themselves, the Grey Wood near as more cover. These trees were their haven; and from them he knew he could gaze whenever he desired upon the city. It thrilled him to know that nestled inside of those walls was a man reeling from tragedy he never could have dreamed of.

I feel you, Adan.

I hope you can feel me too.

–

TBC

I can't wait to hear from you. Thank you for reading.