*Rómenelos – "East-flower", the fictitious capital city of Ithilien in Emyn Arnen

The news came to him through Boromir, the son whom Faramir had named for his brother, Legolas's dear friend since Faramir had died some forty years before. Ithilien's prince seemed to be saying something more, his eyes clouded with sorrow, but Legolas could hear nothing but a tremendous roaring in his ears. The walls spun away from him, widening and vanishing into a dizzying light.

"Legolas." A hand on his shoulder nigh unbalanced him. "Legolas?"

He stumbled back a step and nearly fell before something automatic took control of him, propelling him from the court of Rómenelos. From a distance, vaguely interested, he watched as his body strode to the stables, mounted Arod, and set off at a full gallop north. Surely that was not he, that blind, lonely figure careening recklessly along the steep paths of Emyn Arnen. Surely they were not true, those tidings that had left a great gaping void where his heart once beat.

The pitiable, desolate rider turned westward, crossed the bridge over Anduin that was all that had been rebuilt of Osgiliath. As the fragrance of Ithilien faded behind him, Legolas was drawn unwilling back into himself, forced to the realisation that it was indeed he who rode as though he were racing the Sun to the horizon. A wayward strand of hair lashed his eye, raising a sheen of tears that persisted long after the sting had subsided.

The Causeway Forts were unmanned, the gates flung open in token of the peace that Minas Tirith enjoyed. Across the Pelennor Arod dashed, gleaming grey in the late morning sun, to the foot of the Great Gate in the lowest wall of the City, where he came to a sharp halt. Legolas stared up at the gate towers, cried imperatively, "Edro!"

Without question, the doors of shining steel and mithril rolled back. A figure in the black and silver livery of Gondor stood in the road, dwarfed by the size of the gates to either side. His eyes flared with recognition as they fell on Legolas, and he bowed deeply. "My lord," he began sadly, "I am sorry, but you are too late. The King is…"

The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the wind of the Elf's passing. He rode at a breakneck pace through the City, cursing the road that wound its lazy way from level to level. At last he reached the sixth circle, only to find his path arrested by a throng of Gondor's people. From his vantage point atop Arod, he could see over the heads to the door outside of which they stood.

Fen Hollen. The Closed Door is opened.

"Elbereth," he whispered. "Oh, Nienna, help me now!" He flung himself down from Arod's back, thrusting through the silent crowd that gave way without protest. The foreboding door loomed above him for a moment, and then he was past, running without hindrance, his soft footfalls throbbing in his head, until Rath Dínen and the mansions of the Kings opened before him, and a shadow was cast over his entire world.

Before the nearest and greatest of the houses stood Arwen Undómiel, her hand resting lightly against the shut door, head bowed. Legolas took one step, and then another, feeling as though he struggled through sucking mud. At Arwen's side, a tall man holding the royal crown looked up sharply as he approached. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice stricken and harsh. "What right have you to come here?"

Arwen stirred then and turned, and her eyes rose to meet Legolas's. Despite the evil little creature with its teeth in his heart, he was struck by the dullness of her expression, and it seemed to him that she stood already in Death's embrace. "Peace, Eldarion," she murmured. "This is Legolas, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen; your father's…close friend."

The new King's countenance softened, and he apologised for his rudeness to a member of the storied Fellowship. Legolas summoned a shred of civility to acknowledge him appropriately, his glance resting on the door beyond the Man.

"Allow me a moment with the Prince, my son," said Arwen, and Eldarion nodded, moving away slowly to where three young women stood huddled – his sisters, apparently.

Legolas stepped forward to touch the smooth wood of the door, seeming colder and less yielding than stone. Arwen watched, making no move to prevent him. "He thought of you, if it pleases you to know," she offered. "He would not send for you; he said that he wished to spare you another farewell."

A sob tore his throat in an effort to escape. He turned his back to the mansion, grimly fighting for his composure, and looked around desperately for a distraction. To this end, his focus fell on Eldarion; morbidly, he studied the features of the son of his love, seeking echoes of another face. The Queen followed his attention.

"He named him for both of us, of course." Her eyes, dark with grief, slid sidewise toward the golden-haired Elf. "Eldar ion – son of Elves."

"Of course," he forced himself to reply, his gaze fastened on the sorrowing young Man. He looked so like Aragorn – the same dark, slightly unruly hair; the same quick, knowing glance; the same manner of thoughtfully chewing his lip. And, naturally, there were Arwen's fair complexion and gentle smile. But, strangely, Eldarion had not inherited the grey eyes of either of his parents – his were a clear, crystal blue, of the same shade as those that now watched him.

Legolas inhaled in surprise as he realised, as Arwen added, "I know not how you managed to influence my son, Greenleaf, but influence him you did." Yet there was no malice in her voice, nor any of the resentment of old. At the prince's wary glance, she lifted her shoulders in a listless shrug. "He told me that it was your thought to remove to Ithilien." From her tone, he was evidently not referring to Eldarion.

"Do you now believe that I am sorry?"

Slowly, she answered, "Yes. I believe that you are sorry. I also believe that you truly loved him." For the first time, then, she looked directly at him. "It was hard to reconcile those ideas."

"And…" He hesitated, then asked, "Can you forgive me for the ill that I did you?"

"Oh…" She waved her hand vaguely. "It is long past mattering now."

"But – Arwen, please, for my sake – will you not say it?"

She fixed him with a long, weighty look, piercing as ever despite the remoteness of her expression. "You wronged me greatly, Legolas, you and he both." He shifted and very nearly squirmed under the condemnation in her eyes – that burning gaze that tormented his conscience even in his dreams. Then the moment passed, and she was once more only a woman worn with pain and heartache. "Yet I do forgive you, if you would have me say so aloud."

The relieved response was cut short by her next words. "Indeed, it would be cruel to leave you so unfulfilled. After all, I will be with Aragorn soon. You…well, Ilúvatar only knows when you might see him again."

Legolas's teeth snapped sharply into his lip. The tang of blood in his mouth came as suddenly as the surge of agony that Arwen's statement caused. He felt as though he had walked into a wall where a door ought to have been. The truth was appalling in its finality – he could never, never reach Aragorn again, save perhaps in some vague idea of the Second Music, uncountable ages in the future. He swallowed convulsively, hands clenching air.

Arwen spoke again before he could order his thoughts. "I miss him so," she whispered, almost to herself, and Legolas eyed her in numb disbelief. Did she not understand the knife she had just twisted into his breast? He had never known her to say anything without careful thought, but – she could not be so cruel!

"I miss him too," he managed, each word clipped and bitter. She looked again at him with a glimmer of realisation.

"You do," she said, as if stating a newly-recognised fact. After a minute, she added, "He missed you as well."

The revelation hurt to hear, but it was a peace offering, in a way. With an effort, Legolas reached to accept it. "Was he…" He struggled to fit words to his thought. "Was he content? Was he happy?"

Arwen heard the underlying question: Were you good to him? "I did all that I could, Legolas. Whatever was in my power to please him, I gave him."

Legolas nodded determinedly. "Good, then. Good, then." His mouth worked, but he checked whatever he was about to say, glancing first at the door, then back at Eldarion, seemingly at a loss.

His hesitance did not escape Arwen's notice. She beckoned to the porter standing nearby, who approached with a muffled jingling of keys. "Go in, Legolas," she said. "Go and see him one last time."

A sudden trembling took hold of him, forced him to grit his teeth and twist his hands around the strap of his quiver. After a moment's falter, he turned to the door, which the porter opened for him.

The wide vaulted chamber struck chills into him, so like was it to his memories of Moria. But here, unlike Moria, torches hung flickering on the walls, casting light into the shadowy corners and on the bed in the centre of the mansion.

He started at the sound of the door closing behind him. There was naught else for him to do, then, than to step forward, towards that bed.

He blinked. The face that he had not looked on for sixscore years seemed younger than when he had last seen it. He dashed his hand across his eyes and looked again. No – there was youth there, but there was also age, and somewhere in the midst of all was the Man that he had known – and loved – so very briefly. Never had Aragorn looked more beautiful.

The Elf's legs crumpled underneath him, bringing him rather forcibly to kneel beside the catafalque. His gaze fell on the hands folded across the still breast, and he covered them gently with his own, lifting one to press it to his lips. "Aragorn," he whispered, caressing the fingers whose cold matched the cold in his heart. "My King…"

And then he was weeping, choking, "My love, my love," as he buried his face in the robes that still held their owner's scent. "Please come back to me…please…"

For a long while, the silence of the chamber was shivered by wracking sobs, as the son of Thranduil engaged in a most un-Elven bout of near-hysterical grief.

He lay on the bed in the guest chamber that he had been offered, gazing unseeing up at the ceiling. The semi-darkness was filled with ghosts of memories: with the fall of night over Minas Tirith, it seemed that at any moment Aragorn might enter the room, smiling with anticipation. Exhausted as he had not been in many years, Legolas closed his eyes, imagining the sound of the familiar soft knocking.

Suddenly there was a knock, and Legolas jerked upright, rigid, staring at the door. Never before had his senses deceived him, but…surely…

The knock was repeated, hesitantly. Shaking, Legolas walked to the door and opened it.

The flare of a candle blinded him momentarily, but through the glare he made out a thin, boyish figure, less tall than himself. "Lord," he said in a shy, reverent voice, "excuse me. This was found in his Majesty's rooms." He proffered a folded parchment.

Against the pale paper, the royal seal glowed in red wax; above was written Legolas's name in a strong angular hand. The Elf extended his hand automatically, watched as the letter was placed in it. Sliding past him, the servant boy deftly lit a lamp with his own candle, then backed deferentially out of the room and closed the door softly behind him; Legolas was left standing, staring at the parchment as if it might attack him.

Clamping firmly down on his shrilling raw nerves, he aligned a single finger under the seal and broke it gracelessly, ignoring the drop of blood that welled along the paper's edge. The page unfolded, backlit by the lamp's gleam on the table. The marks made no sense to him at first; in his mind he could see only their author, bent over this very parchment. Was he scribbling, hurried; were those crumples of drafts littering the escritoire? Or was he stroking the barbs of his quill, brows knitted, picking over words in his head? How many times was he forced to redip the point because the ink had dried while he was thinking?

Legolas's eyes focussed. He read:

28 Nénimë 120

Legolas,

I realise that you are, by now, enduring terrible grief, and it tears me to know that this grief is at my hands. I wish more than anything that I might be with you and comfort you, but the most I can give you is this letter, and an explanation.

If you have not already asked why I did not send for you, I know that you will, at some point. Please, please believe that it is not that I have not thought of you – for it is for completely the opposite reason. I want nothing more than to see you, perchance to hold you, one more time. It was only when I told Arwen of my decision a day ago and saw her grief that I realised I could not bear to see yours as well. I do not want you to stand at my bedside and watch me leave you, knowing that you cannot follow. I know not whether this is a selfish thought; I wish only that you not know the sorrow of both before and after the loss.

In all honesty, I am hopeful that death will be a relief for the both of us. I have sometimes cursed my longevity in these weary, lonely years since our parting. I could not and would not insult your pride by begging you to return, but never has a rider arrived from Ithilien but I prayed it was you. And it tortures me to think that you may have suffered in the same way, because of me.

I can offer you even less solace than I did Arwen, for she has at least the blessing of choice. What I will tell you is this: sail to the West. If there is any consolation in this world for such sorrow, it will be found in the beauty of Valinor. Promise me that you will not let that light that I so cherish in you be dimmed.

I hope that you might find it in your noble heart to forgive me for all of the pain that I have caused you. Know that everything I did, I did with you in my mind. In the light of Ilúvatar, after the sundering of Arda Marred and the end of all things, I will wait for you.

I love you.

Aragorn

"Legolas, my fool of a friend, what has gotten into you?"

The Elf had found Gimli packing his belongings, readying to return to the Glittering Caves after paying his respects to deceased King and friend, and had broached his proposal without preface. "Come, Gimli, tell me not that you have no desire to see the Lady again."

"You know I have, of course, but how could it be possible?" He took up his axe, lovingly wrapping the head in a stout leather sheath for safe travelling. "I never so much as touched the Ring, and—" he bowed ironically – "I am but a poor mortal. I could never set foot in the Blessed Realm."

To his surprise, Legolas laughed, a thin, forced sound. "I never expected to see the day when the son of Glóin would fear to challenge a rule," he mocked.

Gimli's eyes sparked in response to the needling. "I? Fear?" he repeated. Hefting his axe, he inquired, "Are you seeking the lesson that I spared Éomer, my dear Elf?"

"Then prove me wrong!" Legolas gripped the axe and twisted it horizontal, kneeling so that he and the Dwarf were eye-to-eye across the weapon's handle. "Come with me to Aman. Think on it – you could see the forge of Aulë – Mahal – himself!"

Wavering, Gimli tilted his head curiously at the other's peculiar urgency. "But why are you so desperate for me to join you?"

Striving for gaiety, Legolas said lightly, "Perhaps I do not wish to be rid of your foolishness just yet, naugol. I have need of a companion to help sail a ship, do I not?"

Gimli snorted. "You should be better off if you asked Elrond's sons; they have more of the Sea in their blood than do I. And they are as immortal as your good self, and not prone to defying the Undying Lands."

The jest seemed to touch a sensitive chord in the Elf: he stood abruptly, loosing a curse in his own Silvan language. "Mortals! Would that I lived in Doriath, which saw perhaps three mortals in the whole of its history!"

Gimli's eyebrow shot upwards. "It is a pity that I did not stay in Erebor, then, when I had the chance, instead of traipsing across country like no self-respecting Dwarf should do, with his ears filled with musical Elven nonsense."

It did not pull Legolas from his mood as Gimli had hoped it would; he remained staring inscrutably down at his companion, arms crossed firmly on his chest. Exasperated, the Dwarf released an explosive sigh. "Despite all of the Elves' vaunted tact and subtlety, they cannot comprehend less than a direct question! For the love of all holy, Legolas, what is wrong with you?"

"For the love…"

The Elf's clouded eyes were suddenly no more than an inch from Gimli's. Warm lips claimed his own; a gust of soft breath touched his face with the scent of sunlit forest. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over, and Legolas had drawn hastily away, faltering, "Forgive me. Forgive me." He turned his back, inwardly writhing. That was enough to ruin even a friendship as strong as theirs. What had he been thinking? Aragorn was not there. It was unfair and untrue of him to coerce Gimli into the empty place. He waited, flinching, for the condemnation to fall.

"I repeat, Legolas," came a voice, almost too gentle to recognise as his gruff friend's, "what is wrong?"

Nigh disbelieving, Legolas turned to look hesitantly at him. "You…you are not offended? Upset?"

"Something ails you, my friend," Gimli replied simply. "Otherwise you would never have done that. You are hurting and angry, and I would know why."

Legolas shook his head slowly, though his heart was singing with gratitude that the other had not taken insult at his lapsus mentis. "I cannot tell you why. You would not understand."

"This thickheaded Dwarf understands more than you might expect." When he received no answer, Gimli rolled his eyes skywards. "Elves and their secrets." Goading, he added, "I suppose I must join you, then, if only for the opportunity to question you further."

That at last produced the desired response, and Legolas's entire demeanour seemed to brighten, even though his voice was fleetingly choked. "Gimli," he managed finally. "Dear elvellon."

Gimli was not untouched by the epithet, but he narrowed his eyes and prodded the Elf with the head of his axe. "I shall become a simpering fool like you," he growled. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Legolas laughed, soft but now real. "Never mind that, my simpering friend," he returned. "Be you ready. We leave tomorrow for Ithilien."

Fin

From the author

That's right, it's over! What an odd feeling…this puppy's been following me around for the past five months. Many thanks to all who have reviewed and exhorted me to keep going; your lovely messages were what I came back to when the story was obstinately refusing to continue. I'm so pleased that you enjoyed this!

I'd also like to thank Aragorn, Arwen, and Legolas for being so complaisant during this entire shenanigan, and the Professor for not smiting me down the moment I typed "A/L" in the summary. And now, back to your regularly-scheduled canon…

An official dedication: this epilogue, to JastaElf, whose request for a sequel so closely paralleled what I had written already of this chapter that I was sure my computer had been hacked. :-) Happy belated birthday, dear, and I'm still waiting anxiously for Dark Leaf to be updated!

Cheers all, and write on!

-Aerlinnel