Author: Mirrordance
Title: Last Stand
Summary: The battle at the Black Gate leaves Legolas strange wounds that do not heal. He knows he is slowly dying & keeps it a secret, as he tours the fleeting mortal pleasures of the world before his last breath. He finds an unwilling coconspirator in Eomer
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14: Fallen Hero
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Rohan, 3019
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"Are you angry with me?" Legolas asked him; it would not be the first time he courted the displeasure of a King.
"I'm not sure," Eomer admitted gruffly. "What a tenuous position you've placed me in, Legolas. I wish to be mad, but have not the heart to be angry at a friend who is passing. You wish me to be silent, yet I could not."
"Please do not tell Aragorn," Legolas beseeched him, "I cannot face him. I cannot give him this. I do not wish for this to be the last thing that I give."
"You need someone here," Eomer argued, "Someone here who isn't me. I have no patience. I can offer no comfort, or understanding. I cannot… I cannot fathom this. I cannot accept it. How could one not live with grief? I've had my fair share and I still remain standing."
There was an edge to his voice; a kind of bitterness, a palpable anger that he was obviously trying to restrain.
"Many deserve this life more than you," the King of Rohan finished helplessly, "many would do more with it than you are doing. I am disappointed."
Legolas stared at the fire. "I would change things if I could," he said quietly, "I do not want this. How could anyone want this?" his voice was escalating, "I cannot… I cannot believe you would think that I would—" he cut himself off, took a deep breath.
"What does one do with a life that does not end?" he asked the human, "Especially when everything that surrounds it fades? It's as if I was born to be an orphan. I own nothing, I belong to no one. I will never own anything, I will never belong to anyone. Is it really so selfish, so unnatural, to want to be surrounded by things that are beautiful and everlasting? And since I cannot get these, is it really so unnatural for such pointlessness to end?"
Eomer was staring at him. "I do not know what to do with you."
A sentiment we share, Legolas thought wryly.
"Let me leave," Legolas said, turning burning, quietly begging eyes his way, "You do not want me here. I do not want me here."
"I cannot do that," Eomer said with finality, not bothering to deny that he did not want the dying elf here; what could he say, really? He did not know what to do about the entire situation.
"Then please just do not tell Aragorn," Legolas said, "Please. How hard is it not to do anything?"
"Harder than you think," Eomer retorted.
Legolas clenched fist descended soundlessly against the
mattress. "I do not wish to pass here
before your spiteful eyes, or Aragorn's sorrowful ones. I do not wish for my last hours to be spent
in a prison of walls. I want to be
outside. I want to be alone. I want to burden no one. All you have to do is let me do as I
please. Turn a blind eye, lend me a
horse, let me walk.
I don't care. Just let me leave."
"It will not be done," Eomer said, turning away from the elf and those fierce eyes
that asked for all at once so little and all at once so much. "I must work," he said quietly, walking
towards the door. He could not bear that
burning, determined gaze. He needed to
think. Or he needed to not-think. He needed to get away from the room and all of
it weight, and all of its loneliness.
"I will think about your request regarding Elessar," he said quietly, just before he stepped out of the door.
* * *
Avia was standing at the hall just outside the elf's room. She was looking at the King with profound misery. Lenne was standing beside her, red-eyed and gulping.
"I told him," she confessed to the King, "I'm sorry, sire. He's very nosy. He was bound to know."
"I didn't know him very well," the boy said shakily, "but… but it's just so sad."
"Oh for god's sake," the King muttered, his brows furrowing, "compose yourself, boy. He lives yet."
"I just think about what he was," Lenne said, "Pounding away at Rohan's enemies…"
"Elves do not pound," Avia murmured at him mildly.
"And now in bed," Lenne imagined, "weak, and dying. It's just so sad. Rohan would lose a hero. You wouldn't have seen, sire. You weren't there—"
"I know," Eomer snapped.
"But oh, my," Lenne continued, oblivious to the King's irritation, "He always rode at the head of the column. Right next to King Theoden. He'd apply those elven senses, sire. You know elves have this haven, he could have left at any time. It could have been someone else's war, sire, but the way he fought for us, you wouldn't have known it. What a loss for one who gave so much." He ended his statement with a sob.
Eomer blanched, but hesitantly placed a hand to the boy's shoulder, muttering, "The way this is turning out, boy, your mother should be paying me."
* * *
What a loss for one who gave so much…
The boy could be an idiot, but it's always been said that children often held the greatest wisdom in their simple words. And the blasted boy had a child's thinking, Eomer thought with a measure of irritation, before conceding that it was probably more fair to say Lenne had more of a child's heart.
The naiveté was almost enviable. Almost… endearing, he ruefully admitted.
Eomer stood by the window of his office, looking over the lands that had fallen across his lap. He was the heir to a much-ravaged country, a much-challenged people who somehow emerged intact. He's had more than his fair share of losses. He could not comprehend how anyone could not find the heart to move forward.
And yet… Legolas was still Legolas, he reflected. Stubborn. A fighter. A warrior. It might just be unfair to conclude that the elf fought this affliction any less than how fiercely he fought for Middle-Earth. It was simply incidental that this war in particular was one that he was losing.
He glanced at his desk. Oh how his hands ached to write to Elessar, his mind running with the words he desperately wanted to say.
Elessar, he would begin the letter, Legolas is in Rohan. He is dying. Come at once. He needs you.
I need you, he would think as he wrote, although he would not say so.
Please do not tell Aragorn. I cannot face him. I cannot give him this. I do not wish for this to be the last thing that I give, Legolas had said.
The selflessness was almost foolishly irritating. What about me? Eomer thought, frustrated.
I do not wish to pass here before your spiteful eyes, or Aragorn's sorrowful ones. I do not wish for my last hours to be spent in a prison of walls. I want to be outside. I want to be alone. I want to burden no one. All you have to do is let me do as I please. Turn a blind eye, lend me a horse, let me walk. I don't care. Just let me leave…
My eyes are not spiteful, Eomer reflected, I'm merely… confused.
He rubbed at his eyes. Running a country was easier.
No word or allegiance binds me to you, he said to the elf, though he owed more to Legolas than he cared to admit.
He did not write the letter. Rohan was much indebted to the elf-prince. While Eomer wished so fervently to call for the formidable reinforcement of Elessar, the King of Rohan could pay what it was his people owed. His silence would be their gift to their fallen hero.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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THANKS EVERYONE AND 'TIL THE NEXT POST!!! Which takes us back to Helm's Deep :) I'm three chapters shy of finishing this story, I think. Haha, I've finished writing chapter 18, began with 19, though I haven't finished 17. I'm a scatter-brain!!! Oh well :) I now have a definite ending in mind, haha. Oh well :) 'TIL THE NEXT POST!!!