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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16: Letters

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Rohan, 3019

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      Eomer sat upon a desk in Legolas' room.  It was evening, and they had taken their leave of each other some hours ago.  Eomer left the elf to his own devices and it was a relief to find he had taken the time to get some much needed rest.

      The King's day was coming to a close, and he remembered his wise sister, in their younger days oft advised him not to let the sun set on his anger.  He did not quite accept the cards fate was handing him regarding Legolas, yet.  But he did not like the way that their last conversation ended, and he thought to say good night and see to a friend whom he knew was fading quickly. 

      He watched Legolas' calm, sleeping face.  He looked… he looked more absent than present.  More… more dead than alive.

      What would it be like, he wondered, If I was instead looking upon your corpse?

      The barest of ideas sent fire through his heart, where a weight rested that he could scarcely live with.

      What a waste, he reflected, although in afterthought, it hadn't been so fair an assessment of the elf's impending death.  He winced, recalling how he bitterly told the elf that he did not deserve his life.

      Perhaps it was his own pains stealing his voice.  Eomer himself lived with many losses, yes.  Often it felt like too much.  But his life was short and he was surely to eventually follow.  But to multiply it, to think of more friends and more faces lost, and an eternity that promised only more pain…

      What I feel for you now, he thought, compounded by age after age, after age.  Plagued by memories, guaranteed by more losses to come…

      And he finally understood.

      The King settled in for a long watch.

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      The first discarded piece of paper had but one and a half words upon it:

      Greetings Eles-

      The King crumpled the sheet hurriedly, deciding that 'Greetings' hardly seemed appropriate for the upcoming morose contents of the letter he was writing.

      The second discarded piece of paper had just half a word written on it:

      Eles-

      The King decided it was entirely too formal.  Almost frigid, almost heartless.  Though it was the more objective tone he desired to take, it hardly felt right, for Aragorn was a friend who deserved much better from him.

      Thus, the third crumpled sheet of paper got slightly further than the previous two:

      Aragorn,

            Legolas is dead.

      And with that single sentence, the third sheet joined its two predecessors, littering the floor.  Too frank, Eomer decided.  It would be like tossing Aragorn into ice water.  The words would take his breath away, freeze his heart, blur and dull his senses.  He would not be able to read and properly focus upon the rest of the letter.

      Aragorn,

            I like to think of myself a simple man.  All things fall in their respective places, abiding by their respective definitions and roles.  Sometimes, life unfolds in such a way that I find myself at odds, wondering why life had to be so complicated, and when did I turn my eyes for things to just suddenly change, and spin away from my control and my willing.  These are sentiments not exclusive to me, I am certain, and this was harshly demonstrated to me by a visit from a common friend of ours.

            I could call him an angel with clipped wings and the occasional, formidable attitude of a warg.  Yes, I speak of Legolas.  It is my most unfortunate duty to inform you that he has passed from this Earth.

      He bled to his death in an agonizingly slow manner and it's partly your fault, Eomer thought, although naturally he did not write it, and continued with something else:

            He died comfortably, like the fat old horse he brought with him here into my lands.  His heart was broken, burdened by the immortality of its ultimately lonely master (or should I say servant?).

            Though for a long time I could not comprehend how this was possible, reasoning that at that point, things ought to be nothing more than a matter of willing, I now see-- knowing Legolas for all of his stubbornness-- that if this being could change his situation, he would.

            He tried his hardest to stay for us.  But the one thing he could not give up for those he loved, was his loving itself.  And since this is a loving that is lethal, well, he obviously paid the royal price.

            Here in these plains of Rohan, the last battle of a war that spanned a lifetime was fought.  It twisted, and it turned, and it ended at last.  Here was his final stand.  It was a field of losses and victories.  When he died, I wondered if he considered it the former or the latter.  Either way, it ended at the last, and that in itself seemed a strange and profound relief.

            Come to Rohan, Elessar.  We shall bid him farewell.

                                                            Eomer

      He finished with a flourish, looking up from his work to find Legolas awake at last, and watching him with a smile playing about his lips.

      "Is it just me," the elf asked, "Or does Rohan not seem to have so few constituents that her King is constantly in my presence as if he had little else to do?"

      "Keep quiet," Eomer told him with sham gravity, lifting up his sheaf of papers, "I'm working."

      Legolas' eyes drifted down to the floor, noting the crumpled pieces of paper.  "You've been keeping yourself busy."

      "I was waiting for you to wake up," Eomer said, "Did you have a good rest?"

      "Yes, thank you," Legolas replied, sitting up and leaning against the headrest, "Letters."

      Eomer grimaced.  "Ah.  Yes."

      "To Aragorn," Legolas guessed, "from that look on your face."
      "I did not give you my word that I wouldn't inform him," Eomer pointed out.

      "I was hoping your word would not be required," Legolas murmured.

      "Would you be horrified if I said these were letters saying you are already dead?" Eomer asked him quickly.

      The elf actually smiled.  "I would be delighted, actually.  For it means that you will be informing him only after the fact.  And I wouldn't have to deal with having him here.  Thank you."  A morbid, mischievous light graced his eyes, "May I read it?"

      "Of course not," Eomer snapped.

      "Why write it now though?" asked Legolas.

      "I'm not entirely sure," the King admitted, "To write it after…" after you die, he edited out, "I'm afraid I will lose my clarity and objectivity.  It might… it might not turn out to be a very good or very informative letter," he finished lamely.

      "Ah," Legolas said, "Just so."

      Eomer absently folded the letter he finished, and set it aside. 

      "Does it hurt?" Eomer asked.

      "No," Legolas replied with a reassuring smile, "It's just like sleeping, after the longest day of your life, and you lie in bed at night thinking about the things you did, and the things you did not."

      "Good," Eomer said with a nod, "Good."

      They fell into an awkward silence.  The room was immersed with just the sound of the cackling fire place and the breezes outside. 

      "Are you hungry?" Eomer asked, "You missed supper."

      "No," Legolas replied, "Thank you."

      "Are you afraid?" Eomer asked suddenly, veering completely away from their previous point of conversation.

      Legolas' brows rose.  "Excuse me?"

      "Of dying," Eomer replied quickly, "Are you afraid of death."

      "Not my own," Legolas replied evenly, "To fear it is like fearing the evening when the sun sets, or to fight a god and expect to win.  No, I do not fear it for myself, not at all."

      "But the same could be said, of others' deaths," Eomer pointed out, "You know they will die, as you will.  You understand the inevitability.  But why do you fear for others when you do not fear for yourself?"

      "Well yes," Legolas conceded, "but it is also a question of who goes first.  I prefer to be spared the grief, if we are all anyway headed that way."

      "So you are practical," Eomer said wryly.

      "I like to think so," Legolas chuckled.

      Eomer looked away from the elf and instead stared at the fire.  "Is there something I could do for you?"

      "I want to leave," Legolas answered easily.

      "I cannot permit it," Eomer told him frankly, "Unless you leave escorted."

      "Then you can give me nothing," Legolas said tersely.

      "Do you know how ill you are?" Eomer asked him, "At half your old strength I'm sure I'd never have seen you here again.  And I'd be missing a horse."

      "Now you're giving me ideas," the elf said wryly.  There was a resigned look that settled slowly about his amused eyes.

      "It can be so easy to amuse you," Eomer pointed out, "How can you be so unhappy?"

      Legolas chuckled at the frustrated observation in surprise.  "I'm not sure.  If I knew I'd have done something about it."  He paused in more serious thought.  "Do you know how it is, when you fight a war for so long that when it ends you seem suddenly misplaced?"

      "It never ends," Eomer argued.

      "Perhaps," Legolas conceded, "Well in that case, things are just as sad.  Possibly even worse.  The first situation means I am suddenly a fighter without a cause.  The second means I have a cause that I will never attain.  Either way… this life is made too long for any of these purposes.  It is futile.  I may as well depart from here."

      Eomer's brows furrowed in thought, his mind scrambling for words.  "I'm sorry for the things I said earlier.  I didn't understand.  I never will.  But now I think I have a measure of an idea.  I was being unfair."

      "I caught you with an unfair surprise as well," Legolas said with a wistful smile, "Let's call it square.  Or wait," his eyes lit with mischief, "I'm not sure.  You hurt me very deeply, now that I think about it.  Could I have a horse?  That would be perfect."

      Eomer laughed in surprise.  "No."

      "Ah," Legolas grinned, "It was worth a try."

      "I won't tell Elessar," Eomer informed him, "Not until the end."
      "Thank you," Legolas told him gravely.  Eomer thought that the elf had these eyes… the room was almost bursting with the gratitude conveyed by those eyes.  It was inexplicably touching.

      "Do you know how it is," said Eomer quietly, "that a people are bonded by the experiences that they've had together?  You're a part of Rohan.  You've even stayed through the most telling, darkest night of our people, and I myself was not there.  You've shared our hopes, our despair, our victory.  You're one of us, do you know that? You are indisputably a part of us. And this in a sense divorced you from your own kin.  I cannot pretend to understand precisely how much this cost you.  But we are grateful.  This is the least that We could do.  My eyes are not spiteful, Legolas.  We are honored to have you here, with your life and now with your death.  Because it must mean that we've become a part of you too."

TO BE CONTINUED…

THANKS EVERYBODY!!!

THE NEXT POST keeps us in Rohan of 3019, and is actually one of my most favorite chapters I think, because the entire fic was inspired by this scene :) so 'til then!!! :)