Blades flashed under the new moon and soon Merry lay snarling in a ring of black cloaks, clutching one arm to the bleeding other.
Legolas, meanwhile, was deeply immersed in a duel of swords with Arwen. NO one intervened.
"Why?" Legolas shouted, parrying a hack to his right that left his sword arm tingling. Sweat streaked his pale hair glistening dark. "You have your son! What more do you want of him?"
Arwen's shining falchion snaked its way past Legolas' guard, nearly to his throat before he raised his sword and locked the two of them in a test of strength.
"Nothing," the dark elf hissed, her breath clouding the metal between them. When Legolas' eyebrows knit in confusion she whirled, letting her sword arc out away form her. "I want nothing from his but his happiness."
"But then why—"
Arwen raised pale fingers to her lips and whistled, and from the forest south of the Threefarthing Stone came a rustle and then a glimmer. Forehead still damp from combat, Legolas watched as a shimmering figure all in white glided out of the woods, through the grasses toward them. As it approached the elf discerned that it was not one but two figures, a horse and a human, and a woman at that. What light there was in the sky seemed to pulse in the coat and mane of the horse and in the fair face of the lady. When they stopped before him she smiled, and he knew her.
"Lady of Rohan?"
Eowyn smirked. "You look surprised."
"But I thought—"
"You thought a great many things, Legolas son of Thranduil." Arwen spoke, coming to stand beside the Shieldmaiden on her shining mount. "All of which turned out to be wrong."
Seeing them standing there, it hit Legolas like a shaft in the heart, and his blue eyes popped. The two women laughed.
"We've been following you boat for quite a while," Eowyn chuckled, swinging easily down from her horse. "Although he's the only one who ever caught up to you," she added nodding toward the animal.
"Shadowfax!" Legolas stroked the long equine nose. "So that's where he kept running off to." He turned beseechingly from one woman to the other. "But, please! If you were following us—why?—you must know where Aragorn is! Is he all right?"
"First let's attend to your loyal hobbit friend there." Arwen moved toward the grimacing Merry in his ring of blades.
Legolas grabbed her arm. "No, Undomiel, tell me now! What has Glorfindel done to my King? Tell me!"
Arwen saw something in the blue eyes that made her turn away and Eowyn, whose hand has shot to her sword at Legolas' accosting of her lover, relaxed. "I left as soon as Glorfindel did," the dark elf intoned, looking off into the darkness. "He said he was out to redress wrongs done to me, and before I could stop him he went off with that hateful company of his. I wanted to find Elessar first and to grand him royal pardon and set him free. To tell him…" She looked toward the white glow of Eowyn in the night and smiled. "I wouldn't have come close if the Lady hadn't found me. Since Gandalf left, Shadowfax seems to have given himself over to her."
"Somewhat, anyway," Eowyn cut in. "He kept running off, presumably to you. He'd be gone for days at a time and we'd just keep on—"
"He carried Aragorn to me." Legolas' voice was soft. "I was at the Gray Havens, on the docks even, and Shadowfax brought him to me in time." He regarded the steed standing off to one side with a mixture of gratitude and wistfulness. "No other beast could have done it."
Eowyn nodded. "I believe he senses when he's needed."
"So when Shadowfax wasn't there, and that was often, we tracked you," Arwen continued. "Or—Aragorn. I was sure we'd catch up to you before Glorfindel did, and warn you. Tell you that you didn't have to run."
"You could've borrowed other horses," Legolas muttered darkly.
"It wasn't that." Eowyn laid a restraining hand on his arm. "We didn't want to get too close to the sea."
Legolas looked from pale eyes to dark without speaking. Behind him he heard Merry's grumbling as the cloaked attendants bound his wound.
"Do you feel it?" Arwen whispered after a time. Even as the words left her lips she looked away.
Legolas was slow in replying. In truth, since they'd been attacked, he had been too fraught with grief and worry to think of the sea or its pull on him. But now that Arwen brought it up, the old tug rose to his consciousness, ceaselessly yet fainter now with the distance between him and the lapping waves.
"Yes," he said at last. His words were simple and without condemnation. "I feel it. It's not as strong now, with the mountains between us, but I feel it."
"Don't you—" Arwen's face twisted into tragedy.
"I will not leave Aragorn."
Eowyn gave a cry. "We had no choice!" Her eyes glittered in defense even as she asserted that there was none necessary. "We aren't like you. We don't have time. Since—Aragorn—she is mortal!"
"So am I."
Two sets of eyes gaped at him.
Arwen recovered first. "You mean—with a mortal woman—"
"No, never!" Legolas frowned. "With Aragorn, who else?"
"But I thought you only lost your immortality when your lover was…condoned," Eowyn murmured, as baffled as her lover.
"You mean you didn't know—but Arwen!" Legolas insisted, "What about Maedhros and Fingon? Don't you remember them?"
"No."
"Didn't your father ever—"
"I was raised in the trees of Lothlorien, Legolas."
"All the more reason, then! Galadriel would know, she was there!"
"Tell us," Eowyn snapped. Her tone struck sparks and Legolas sensed that these women wouldn't like to hear what he was about to say. He didn't care.
"Maedhros and Fingon were friends when they left the Blessed Realm, and when both came east Maedhros saved Fingon from where Morgoth had chained him—"
"I know that," Arwen fixed him with a look of urgency, along with a certain unwillingness to believe that prompted Legolas to be all the more frank.
"They were lovers," he stated. "They died, and came to the halls of Mandos separately, and mourned their separation in life. They begged Mandos to give them hands with which to hold each other once more and Mandos went to Manwe and he granted their request and more, calling their love sacred. He restored to them life, if mortal, and granted them the chance to live short, beautiful lives before departing on the paths of Men."
"How do you know this?"
"My father Thranduil told me and Elros told him—Elros knew about it when he chose life as a man. He was your uncle, I can't believe—"
"My father would never tell me such a thing," Arwen whimpered, just as Eowyn let out a yell.
"All these years! All these years wasted, wasted trying to lure Aragorn into loving you so you could—could become mortal and now—" She howled into the night, prompting abrupt silence from Merry and his circle of swordsmen. "So much wasted!"
"You and Aragorn must have been so happy," Arwen murmured sadly, half to herself.
But her words caused a change in Legolas' face that Eowyn failed to miss.
"You did tell him, didn't you?"
Legolas looked to the stars.
"You didn't tell him?!" Eowyn exploded. "You knew all this and you didn't tell him? Do you have any idea what a burden that is for him? Knowing you will die when the one you love goes on and…and…" Her voice caught.
Arwen, too, choked up as she threw her arms around the Shieldmaiden and Legolas casually stepped off to one side, thoughts whirling.
Burden? He had never meant to put any burden on his dear Aragorn's shoulders, never! Neither had he stopped to think what the lack of knowledge and Maedhros and Fingon would do to one in the Man's position. Knowing you will die when the one you love goes on…
He had meant to tell Aragorn, meant even to use it as a subtle lead-in one day to topics best left to hands and not mouths. He'd meant to remind him, just in case the Man had forgotten the story. But he'd never found the right place or time, and now they were running out of it, just as Eowyn said. So much wasted…
"I thought he knew," the elf whispered. He thought of Aragorn's gray eyes clouded with guilt and grief. The Man was always so quick to find fault in himself. "I thought…he…knew." Then, more softly still, "What have I done?"
Warm breath snorted down his neck and Legolas turned to see Shadowfax pawing the ground impatiently. "You'll let me—" he elf asked, but in answer the horse snorted again and stamped the ground. "Thank you." Legolas leapt atop the silver back, glanced back toward the embracing women and thought better of it. Just as Shadowfax turned south he heard a shout.
"Good luck, Legolas!" Merry called. His good arm waved from a tangle of Arwen's band. "Give my best to Aragorn!"
"I'll do that, Merry!" Legolas called, choking up and urging Shadowfax forward under the low-slung moon. "We're coming," he whispered past the lump in his throat. "We're coming, Aragorn."
* * * *
Never before had Legolas ridden so hard. Mile after mile drummed by underhoof without a pause, and long after even his elven muscles had developed a steady throb he and Shadowfax were still speeding southward. The Brandywine flashed by in a splash moonlight, as did barren land between it and the Greyflood. This second river would have posed a problem for a lesser animal than Shadowfax, but under the horses' hooves and Legolas' fervent prayers the current seemed to slacken for them, making the crossing last all of a minute.
When the sun tinged the horizon the elf spared it the barest of glances. All his concentration focused upon the blotched, summer-seared land to the south. To the east, he knew, lay the spot where the Fellowship had been attacked by wargs so long ago, and the memory bit at him. Aragorn had seemed the bravest of them all; he always had. You'd never have guessed the burdens he fashioned for himself, and here Legolas had gone and piled on more.
"I'm coming," he cried into the howl of wind, raising it to a shout when he words fell away. "I'm coming!" He could have sworn Shadowfax picked up the pace.
The Misty Mountains had always hovered watchfully to the west, but as the sunk sank Legolas thought he saw the first rumple on the horizon to the south. At his exultant yell Shadowfax slowed to a canter, then a trot.
"But we're so close! Please, just a little further! Please!" Legolas begged, but the horse only came to a stop. For the first time Legolas noticed the sweat soaking the animal from ears to hooves, the chuffing gasps of breath that streamed from flared nostrils. He apologized. "We've come so far." He gazed at the tiny wrinkle to the twilit south in wonder. "Two hundred miles, at least." Silence reigned from then on and he bid the great horse goodnight, though he himself did not sleep. He kept thinking of Aragorn in the grasses at the feet of Ered Luin, bronzed and shimmering with sunlight's kisses and Legolas' own. How long had it been? The elf searched the oft-sung-of stars, but found no answer. He would have given a whole sky of the celebrated jewels of his people for Aragorn's safety.
In the morning the hint of mountain to the south was gone, and Legolas assumed with a heavy heart that he had invented it out of desperation. Around noon, though, the wrinkle reappeared and grew, and his excitement outgrew it threefold when the silver thread of the river Isen glimmered in the distance.
Legolas hadn't ascertained from Arwen and Eowyn exactly where Glorfindel had taken or would take Aragorn, and at first the elf cursed himself for the discrepancy. But he soon decided that, had either of them known, they would have told him sooner, revelation about mortality or no, and with that in mind he had Shadowfax bear him straight south toward the White Mountains. He had neither the time nor the patience to go around them, either through the Gap of Rohan or west to a series of gentler heights, so he vowed to find a way through them when he came to them. After that he would head to Minas Tirith, and if Aragorn wasn't there…well, he'd worry about it when it got there.
They crossed the Adorn at mid-afternoon and by nightfall the snowy front of the White Mountains had anchored itself securely into their vision. Legolas waited with veiled misery for Shadowfax to check his gallop and call a halt for the night but he didn't, and before long they were mounting the steppes to the stone monoliths.
"I don't know how long you plan to stay with me," the elf spoke, patting the sweaty neck affectionately, "but I thank you for taking me this far." Shadowfax snorted but tossed his head, and Legolas sensed the horse's pleasure. They were picking their way up a rocky slope by dawn, and when they halted at the mouth of a frigid stream Legolas finally fell into a troubled sleep, borne there by nerves too tired to do anything else.
* * * *
"I'll be right back, Shadowfax. Wait here."
Legolas would have stalked if he had the energy. He hated doing this, gallivanting off to hunt while Aragorn could be Elbereth knew where, bruised and beaten and all manner of things not pleasant to dwell upon. But the elf had to eat. He'd been putting it off for the ten days they'd been in the mountains, inching laboriously east along dire precipices and under towering peaks, always at the mercy of the wrathful mountain storms prone to spring up at a moment's notice. His plan had been to make a quick and easy crossing south into the flatter lands of Gondor, but to the south the cliff faces lost even their goat trails and all was rigid planes and impassable angles. They had been forced to meander east, wasting time and energy, and now with spots swimming before his eyes Legolas had to take even more time to hunt food enough to keep him going. Exhaustion and fury gnawed at his nerves and he made his taut way along a snow-dotted swale, smoldering eyes alert for any sign of edibles.
The sun was fading fast. "If only I had some lembas," he muttered, then bit back a yip. Tucked up into a crevice at the end of the field, a dull green plant bowed low with berries. Legolas staggered over to it and began plucking the dark fruit in handfuls, cramming them into his mouth in a very un-elflike fashion. He hadn't eaten since the meeting with Arwen and Eowyn—he'd left his pack there in his haste to head south—and now the stringy, slightly-wizened cloudberries felt ambrosial to his shrunken stomach. When he'd picked the plant clean he sighed and leaned against the rock it sprouted from, wondering if its seeds had spread nearby. His gut still cried out for food.
In the peace of falling night he heard, or thought he heard, the rushing of water. Visions of spring-fed cloudberries filling his head, Legolas scaled the brief cliff face and came out onto a wandering ledge overlooking an arm of forest that transcended the treeline. "There!" His eyes lit up as the flash and flicker of whitewater filtered through the trees. Deft as any mountain goat, the elf whirled down the rock-strewn path that could only have been but a few feet wide at its best points, leaping the gaps when he came to them. With triumph he rounded a last awkward bend onto a knob of rock overlooking a magnificent waterfall. His years of growing up under sky and tree overwhelmed his hunger and for a moment he just stood there taking in the explosion from the rocks, the frothing leap into space and the spray-lashed trees at the bottom. Grief and worry had robbed him of his faculties for the whole of his journey; for the first time he took in the scene around him for the splendor it truly offered.
Then as he turned away to scout for berries, something caught his eye. The sun was behind the peak and cast a shadow on already dark forest, blurring colors even to his infravision, and without thinking Legolas drew his homemade bow from his quiver and notched an arrow to it. No sense in not being ready. With a wary eye out for spray-slick rocks and traitorous scree he advanced toward the edge of the knob, all traces of fatigue gone pushed from his limbs with the first jolt of adrenaline. When the rock ended he found himself facing a forty-foot drop onto a lesser tier of the mountain muddled with scraggly pines and the rushing stream. He froze for a moment, hoping for a repeat of the motion that had drawn his attention, but the place seemed deserted. He turned away.
"You could not kill him!"
Immediately Legolas flattened to the contours of the rock and raised his bow, sighting along it to the tumbled shadows below. There—there, atop a rock half-hidden by a wind-ragged pine, a pale head shone bright. A figure it was, garbed all in black, gesticulating wildly to the night. Legolas tightened his hold on his bow.
Until, below the figure, what Legolas had judged to be a rock whirled around with a clatter of iron. The elf's breath died in his throat. Forty feet below him in the last light of a dying day, Aragorn son of Arathorn stood proud and naked in his chains.