A Conversation at Helm's Deep

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Peter Jackson, who so brilliantly brought them to life.

Author's Note: You have my sincerest apologies for having taken so long to complete this story. I was about half way through when I decided to scrap the project. It just wasn't turning out the way I wanted, and so I was forced to start all over again. And then my computer crashed on me. Talk about frustrated! Anyway, it's finally done, and I hope you all aren't too mad at me. I'd like to say thanks everyone who reviewed the first half. Your reviews were such an encouragement that I just couldn't give up. Thank you very much!

Please, take a second to leave a review or send me an email at adalanta14@yahoo.com. I really would like to know your thoughts on this story, and whether or not I should try writing another LOTR fanfic. Thanks!

Part Two

"You weep for Aragorn as well, do you not, my Lady?" the whispered words sliced through the cold night air, bouncing off of the walls of the Keep and the mountain, creating a verbal cyclone that swirled turbulently around the two figures standing in the small alcove.

Legolas watched the young woman carefully to see what affect his words would have upon her, awaiting her response to his query. He did not have long to wait.

Eowyn's eyes widened in surprise and fear, and she abruptly drew back from him as if she had been physically struck, her already pale face whitening still further. Her slender frame visibly trembled, and she was forced to put a small white hand against the dark stones of the Keep to steady herself.

This last movement broke his self-imposed stillness. Concerned for her well-being, the elven prince took a step forward, ready to assist her should she require it. "My Lady, are you unwell?" he asked softly.

At his words, the surprise and fear vanished, only to be replaced with an emotion that could only be described as rage, and, though she still trembled, she trembled now with a fierce anger. Clenching her fists once more at her side, she straightened up and glared defiantly at him through narrowed, tearing eyes. "A man as courageous and noble as the Lord Aragorn deserves many tears, for the world will never be the same now that he has fallen," she spoke in a low, hard voice. Then, the rage in her eyes took on a feverish glow, an unholy light that threatened to consume the one at whom she glared. "Was the Lord Aragorn not your companion?" she accused bitterly. "Why do you not weep for him? Not a single tear have I seen you shed this long day – not one!"

Legolas froze, not a single muscle twitching, as the blood coursing through his veins turned as cold as newly melted ice. He stood completely still, afraid that if he moved his façade would crack, and all the pain and anger he felt would be released into the open. "There are many customs that the Eldar and Men do not share … Grief is but one." Finally feeling that he could move without breaking, he turned his back on the Lady of Rohan, prepared to leave the alcove before his brittle control shattered and he said that which he would later regret.

"And is emotion yet another?" she called after him loudly.

Suddenly, the anguish he felt in his soul mutated into a glacial fury. Like a mighty river unleashed, he erupted in a torrent of words. "Speak not of that which you do not understand!" His frigid blue stare challenged hers, his face as cold and still as marble, his pleasant voice roughened with emotions he could withhold no longer. "You speak of grief, my Lady, but it is not the same. Your grief will ease as the years pass, and, should it not, you must endure it only until your death. But mine…mine shall remain for eternity, fading slowly through the centuries, perhaps, but always a part of me. Elves live for millennia, but there is a price, and the price is memory."

The young woman crumbled under the heavy weight of his stare and glanced away, silence once again filling the small alcove. After a moment, she spoke in a mere whisper, "I must beg your forgiveness, my Lord Elf. The people of Rohan have not had dealings with the Elves for centuries, if at all. We – I – have little understanding of the Eldar beyond that which has been heard from travelers or handed down in myth." Raising her her head, she looked out into the Deep. "To the Rohirrim, Elves seem cold and unfeeling…incapable of grief. To see one such as yourself loose a companion and not shed a tear - "

"My grief is beyond tears," he interrupted, heart clenching in pain. "Aragorn was close to me, a brother in all but blood. Beyond count are the times that I have spent with him at the house of his father and in the wild lands of the North. He has long been my friend, fellow warrior, and companion - more trusted by me than my own kin. His loss is beyond your understanding."

Eowyn shook her head slightly at his last words. "It is true that I knew him only a few days, but his death is a terrible blow, one that will haunt me for the rest of my days." Her dark eyes stared sightlessly into the night, her gaze taking on an inward stare. "Never have I see such a man. He had an unearthly quality…a fire that glowed within, shining brightly to all who would but look upon him." A tremor rippled through her slight frame, and she wrapped her arms tightly about herself before continuing. "That fire could have ignited all of Middle Earth, sweeping the land free of the vile creatures that pillage, burn, and destroy it, until only goodness remained in the world. But that is not to be for the flame has been extinguished. Who now will come to save us? What man could endure such a fire?"

The shadows began to thicken around the tall Elf, circling hungrily, as he listened to her dismal words. So deeply in thought was he that his own words slipped between his lips without his even being aware. "He is gone…Estel…"

"Estel?"

He blinked at the question, finally realizing that he had spoken aloud his darkest fears. I came here simply to help her, to ease the pain she felt and to give her comfort. How did this happen? he thought, completely bewildered, shivering as a sudden coldness filled his body. The iciness within began to seep through his body, into his very bones, spreading like a poison from his heart outward to the rest of him. I should not be here. I should have done something - anything - to save him. It is not right that I should stand here and speak of the dead -

No! he shouted mentally, cringing inside, as the shadows closed in on him, their icy claws gripping him tightly, viciously. He is not dead! He cannot be dead! He struggled briefly with the darkness, but he was too tired to fight, his exhausted mind, body, and soul could take no more. A tidal wave of despair crashed over him, and suddenly, he needed to get away. Away from the cold stone walls that threatened to crush him. Away from the darkness that flooded his soul. Away from the specter of death that continued to haunt him his footsteps, a ghostly remnant unwittingly released in Moria. His heart thumping in fear at the strange sensations that engulfed him, he spun on his heel and made for the alcove's entrance, agile body stumbling awkwardly, mind curiously numb.

A small, yet strong hand grasped his trembling shoulder, causing him to twist around weakly. "Master Elf? Are you ill?"

The words meant nothing to him, just another noise that his numb mind could not comprehend. He stared blankly at the blond woman before him, not knowing that his once calm face was now a mask of agony and terror, an open portal to his turbulent, black emotions.

"Master Elf?! Please! Tell me what is troubling you!"

He could see her lips move, but heard nothing: no rough scraping of the wind upon the stones of the Keep, no gentle whickering from the horses in the stables below, no soft voice speaking to him in the human tongue. Nothing. The world was deadly silent, a frightening occurrence for an Elf, who relies so heavily upon his keen hearing for safety.

His senses were abandoning him one by one. His mind had gone numb. His hearing had disappeared. His body had turned colder than the frigid snow of Caradhras. The only sense that remained was that of sight, and even that was growing dim. Eowyn's face filled his eyes. Through his tunneling vision, he saw the whiteness of her skin, the wide, terrified look in her eyes, the two silver tears that slid down her cheeks. He could feel himself begin to fade and only vaguely felt his legs give way beneath him, crumbling bonelessly to the rough stones below.

Slender arms were around his limp body, cradling him close, but he barely noticed it. His mind returned for the briefest of moments, and he knew the truth. He was dying. He had let his mental guard down for too long, and the grief had finally overpowered him.

I am sorry, Aragorn, he apologized mentally to his dead friend. I promised you that I would continue on no matter what happened, but the pain is too great. It is too much for me to bear. I cannot live with this agony. Your death, brother of my heart, has torn that strong organ in half. Who could survive that?

He threw open his mind to the world about him one last time, his senses returning in one vibrant flash of awareness. He smelled the damp, mustiness of the earth and felt the tall swaying grasses in the land outside of Helm's Deep. He stretched farther, hearing the soft whispering trees from Fangorn Forest. He reached still further and felt the refreshingly cool water of a river…the river - the one in which Aragorn had fallen into and drowned. He withdrew automatically from the swift current, like a hand that has been scalded. He turned to head back and finally let his spirit depart the painful world…

His mind brushed against an achingly familiar presence, and he stopped, astonished. He tentatively reached out…and felt the presence once again. It was dimmer than normal and full of pain, but alive.

Aragorn was alive.

He longed to linger where he was and rejoice in the living presence of his best friend, but he could feel his physical body weakening, his systems shutting down. His mind rushed back into his body as swiftly as if it were born on the wings of eagles. By the time he rejoined with his body, his heart was beating weakly, its normally steady rhythm now sluggish and erratic. His breathing had completely stopped, and he struggled to restart it, gasping for air through motionless lungs that protested the harsh, abrupt movement and rebelled by sending thousands of vicious shards into him with every inhalation. Every single breath was a conscious effort, one that was so painful that he was briefly tempted to let go, but then he remembered Aragorn.

I cannot allow myself to flee this world when he has fought so hard to remain. Spurned on by that thought, he renewed his waining determination and continued his fight for survival.

Slowly, his senses returned, and he became aware of the two slender arms that held him close and the soft falling of rain upon his face. He lay there for a time, utterly spent, reluctant to move away from the warmth that felt so pleasant against his chilled body. At long last, the agony in his lungs eased, and he breathed in deeply, relishing in the crisp night air that flooded his body. As his breathing steadied, the dark mist that had veiled his eyes dissipated, and, blinking, the world came back into focus. Turning his head slightly, he saw the face of the Lady Eowyn, for it was she whose arms held him, keeping his body from lying upon the cold stone floor of the Keep.

She gasped at his sudden movement, brown eyes wide in the moon's light. "My Lord Elf! What ails you? Shall I call for a healer?"

"Peace, my Lady. I am fine." He sat up carefully and shifted a short distance away, leaning wearily against the stone wall of the Keep, exhausted from his recent struggle with the black shadows of death. Staring up into the night sky, he sought the bright light of Earendil, most beloved star of his people.

"Shall I call Master Gimli? Perhaps, he could be of some assistance to you?"

"There is no need," he reassured her, trying not to sound too hasty. Gimli would never forgive me if he learned that I nearly gave in to my grief. He has watched me with the eyes of a hawk ever since the Warg battle, fearful that I would do just that. He stifled a smile at his choice of words, remembering another time when his stout friend had boasted of his excellent eyesight, only to be on the sharp side of an Elven arrow less than a second later. The humorous memory sent a surge of warmth through him, chasing away the lingering chill that refused to release its hold upon him. Clearing his throat softly, he continued, "It was but a brief moment of weakness that has already passed. I am well. Do not trouble yourself about this."

She stared at him, disbelief written in every line of her body, the tearstains on her pale countenance only too visible, a clear sign of her distress. "How could I not? It is said that Elves are immortal, that they cannot die, and yet, only moments ago, you laid here cold and still, without breathing, looking as if the hand of death were upon you." She shook her head, frowning. "I do not understand what just happened."

Legolas closed his eyes briefly before turning to face her. "It is true that Elves are immortal, that we suffer neither illness nor old age, but that does not mean that we cannot die." Glancing out into the Deep, he paused to consider his reply, unwilling to explain such a personal matter and yet…Something within told him that this human needed to know. "Even the most skilled warrior may fall if his wounds are too grievous," he spoke slowly, choosing each word with great care. "The blade and the arrow do no less damage to the Firstborn than to mankind."

"And yet you do not appear to be wounded."

"Not all wounds are visible to human eyes, my Lady." But are to Elvish eyes, he added mentally, sighing inwardly in relief at the absence of other Elves. "Some lie deep within, destroying from the inside, each moment filled unceasing agony. For those, it is easier to die than to remain with the living." He remained silent, watching her, wondering if she would understand his meaning without a more thorough explanation, and was pleased at the sudden understanding that dawned within her steady gaze.

Compassionate brown eyes met his own weary blue. "I too am familiar with this type of wound," she said quietly and shook her head, her flaxen hair swishing gently across her back and shoulders. "Those that die oft times take the living with them. I did not realize that our two races shared this unfortunate trait."

A cold gust of wind blew through the Deep, sending a chill through Legolas' body and causing the woman beside him to shiver for a moment and pull her cloak closer about her for warmth. Uneasy with the subject of conversation, he decided it would be best to end it and take his leave before he revealed too much. "My Lady, it is growing late, and we have much work ahead of us on the morrow." He pulled himself to his feet, bowed his head to her in respect, and turned to leave the alcove.

"Master Elf…" Eowyn's voice came hesitantly, a few feet behind him. "You spoke earlier a word of which I am not familiar. What does 'estel' mean? Is it Elvish?"

He froze, too shocked by her words to move or even speak, but, fortunately, his mind was not similarly affected. What can I say? I cannot tell her that 'Estel' is Aragorn. That is for him to speak of, not I. Still, she deserves an answer. He stepped back towards her. "Yes, estel is Elvish. It means 'hope.'"

"Hope," she repeated, sarcasm and disbelief warring for supremacy in her tone. "What hope is there left for the world of men?"

"Even though you cannot see Hope, that does not mean that it is not there," Legolas said quietly, thinking of both Aragorn and of the hope of which Eowyn spoke of earlier. Without meaning to, his right hand stole to a small, hidden pocket sown into the lining of his tunic and the precious object held therein. As the tips of his fingers brushed up against its smooth texture, an idea formed, one that would, if done deftly and cautiously, serve to inspire the disheartened human who stood before him. His fingers carefully curled around the object and removed it from its place of safekeeping. "Still, if you must see hope to believe, then look upon this. For this, above all else, is a symbol of hope." He slowly opened his hand, the Evenstar held safely in his palm.

She gazed at the delicate, glowing jewel cupped in his hand, completely mesmerized, her expression unbearably sad and filled with longing. "That…that was Lord Aragorn's, was it not?"

"Yes, twas a gift from the Lady Arwen of Rivendell bestowed to him as he bid his final farewell. It was found after the battle." He did not want to remember how it was found – clutched in the bloody, dirty hand of a dead Warg-rider – nor that this particular creature was the one who had nearly killed his best friend. The memories were still raw and fresh, despite the now certain knowledge that his friend still lived. He fought hard to push the disturbing thoughts and images out of his mind and concentrate on the present, and, though it was a struggle, he finally succeeded. He focused on her and was surprised to see a flicker of pain cross her face, there and gone so quickly that he was uncertain if his eyes had truly seen it.

"She is Elfkind." The phrase was more a statement than a question, spoken in a neutral tone that belied her obviously roiling emotions contained just below the surface. "He spoke earlier of her when I questioned him about that jewel." She gestured towards the Evenstar. "He said that she sailed West to the Undying Lands with all of her kin." She finally lifted her eyes from the iridescent crystal and met his own. "Can this be so?"

Once again, Legolas had a flash of insight, a gift, while not unusual for the Firstborn, that was new to him. He had decided earlier that night that the Lady Eowyn wept most bitterly for Aragorn, and, when confronted by the idea, she had not denied it, only avoided replying. Her overwhelming grief at his disappearance and supposed death and her keen interest in Arwen only confirmed that which he had both suspected and dreaded.

Eowyn was in love with Aragorn.

He sighed inaudibly. Oh, my Lady. Why must you fall for the one man you shall never have, for his heart is meant for another, his eyes see only her grace and beauty? Why must you add yet another heartache to those that all ready trouble you? These feelings will bring you nothing but grief. He desperately searched for the right words to speak to inform her of the painful truth without crushing her spirit.

"Yes, it is true that the Lady Arwen can choose to sail West, but the decision is ultimately hers to make. The bond between Aragorn and Arwen is very strong, a love that transcends culture and race. Such strength I have never before witnessed. In my heart, I believe that she will stay."

The pain that flooded her eyes was terrible to behold, and he was forced to look away, torn between the desire for Aragorn and Arwen to marry and an intense longing for some small bit of happiness to brighten Eowyn's difficult life. When he finally glanced back, her face had hardened into stone, cold and unfeeling, an image as distressing as the overwhelming pain he had seen only seconds earlier. "The Lady Arwen's intentions do not matter," she said coldly, "for Lord Aragorn has fallen."

The Elven prince shook his head slowly and gazed down at the shimmering jewel cradled in his palm. "Nothing can separate Aragorn from the Evenstar. Neither distance nor injury will keep him from his beloved's gift. As long as the Evenstar shines, hope still remains." Hearing Eowyn's sharp intake of breath, he raised his head to watch the young woman.

She stared at him in utter disbelief. "You believe he is yet alive?" she whispered incredulously, as if, should she speak too loudly, the idea would shatter into a thousand pieces and blow away in the wind, never to be seen again.

Legolas hesitated. I know Estel is alive, he thought, but I do not know when he will come, and I refuse to cause her further pain by assuring her of something that may not happen for quite some time. "I do not wish to speak of it. But this I will say – do not let despair take hold, for there is yet hope."

For a few moments, she said nothing, her brown eyes shuttered, hiding all of her emotions as she considered his vague words. At last, she spoke. "I will not give in to despair, my Lord, but it is too soon for hope. Still…," she paused, and the tiniest hint of a smile touched her fair face, illuminated by the silver moonlight, "the night seems neither so dark nor so cold as it first appeared, and for that, you have my gratitude."

"You are most welcome, my Lady," he smiled back, and then bowed his head once more. "The morning draws ever nearer. May I escort you back inside the Keep?" he asked, gesturing back towards the alcove's entrance and the sturdy, wooden doors beyond.

Shaking her head, she replied, "I am not yet ready. Do not worry," she reassured him, seeing the look of concern that darkened his face. "I will not be long."

"Very well. Goodnight, my Lady."

"Goodnight, my Lord Elf."

As he exited the alcove, he could not help but turn back for one last glance, just to be certain that she was indeed fine. Looking back, he saw her lean against the Keep's wall, face turned upward towards the moon, her pale countenance nearly glowing in the soft light, a gentle breeze playing with her long, golden tresses. Despite the serene pose, he searched her face for any sign of sadness or distress, but found none. And so he left her alone with her thoughts to contemplate their conversation, his heart lightened in relief.

I went to comfort her and to ease her burden, and instead, I found relief for my own pain and fears, he mused, standing before the door, and then hesitated. Glancing up into the starry heavens, he locked his blue eyes on the star of Earendil, shining brightly in the night sky, and uttered a short, heartfelt prayer. "May the Valar watch over you and guide you, Estel, on your return to us. Be safe, nin mellon," he whispered and then disappeared into the Keep.

*FINIS*