AUTHOR NOTES: This is my super long author note. How thrilling!
I love my readers. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I love you. As much as Legolas loves Eowyn, in fact (insert lyrical hodgepodge here). I even love the mean reviews. Am I a sadomasochist or what?
You are the lovely reasons for my continued writing, but I must say, it is terribly hard to sate your appetites. For my own sake, I have to ask for a little more lenience in the time department. I'm spitting out chapters as fast as I can. I don't want to give you total swill. I like to make them good enough at least for posting. And thank you for giving me 100 reviews! Crikey.
Oh, and the last thing I'll say on the subject of Elf hair (a popular topic, non?) is this: read the appendix of LOTR! The last thing written therein is about the Elves, and in this ending chunk of text it says: "Their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finarfin." House of Finarfin you say? That means Galadriel, Finrod and all their crew.part of this family tree the Mirkwood elves are not. They're Sindarin: Gray Elves, Moriquendi, whatever you'd like to call them. But honestly.WHO CARES? Live freely! Let imagination run wild! Maybe your Legolas has blue hair. Terrific.
Please realize that I am not going to make that many changes to the original plot. Yes, this story is about the bond between Eowyn and Legolas- but Faramir is going to feature, and in full force. Love triangles are fun to write, but no fun to be in.
Chapter XIV - The Armory
The dreamy days had somehow melted into weeks. These were short and filled with fleeting moments that sent Legolas' heart to his throat with fear. She was rather intimidating. She was so brave, so fearless-he felt like a gust of wind in the shadow of a mighty storm.
The prospect of battle had ignited something subtly keen in Eowyn's eyes. Her stance was statuesquely taut, but not rigid. Her movements were precise and quick, like the practiced techniques of a combat master gesturing to his lined-up pupils. But Eowyn was a silent adviser: she spoke to everyone in her stillness. She inspired each eye that fell upon her. In effect, she was the model of the perfect warrior without so much as lifting a finger.
There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that Eowyn was a warrior. It was something deeper than the fact that she had obviously been raised in this cavalry-based culture. Her steps were like the ringing of polished steel, her glance that of a skilled hunter. Perhaps it was something instilled in her blood. He had seen a little of it in Eomer as well.
How amusing to realize that Eomer and Eowyn were brother and sister! That certainly explained some of Legolas' uneasiness when they had first encounter the Rohirrim. And Eomer was certainly more amiable now, though weary and afraid whereas Eowyn was fiercely proud and shining. She was a beacon to everyone as the finality of war came upon them. Even Gandalf cast a searching eye on her face, as though he perceived something grave and mysterious that she had hidden away from them-something that was beautiful and unexpected, and would show itself quite soon.
* * *
"An Elf has come to Rohan," Eowyn whispered to the night, for she had heard in a story that the night belonged to the Elves, that their souls were doubled in that world, and that each star matched its Elven soul upon the land of Middle-earth; for every star their was an Elven spirit. She remembered the stories of their deeds that seemed both heroic and sad. Mostly there was sadness, but she liked sadness. It was profound. She loved all that was profound, even in the briefest, slightest way.
And Eowyn was young, but not too young. She was old enough to conduct herself with tact and grace. She was the daughter of a proud line of kings and exceeded all the expectations laid before her. But now...she found herself stepping back to gaze in awe.
Outsiders seldom came. There was no safe route to Rohan with the wandering tribes of orcs that picked at the population like a subtle plague. Eowyn was faced with restrictions: no riding without escort was the rule she rued the most. Why was she tied down while her brother was permitted to roam as he would? Everyone seemed to have some preconception of her-everyone except this being of another world and also, it seemed, another time.
War.
They told her she would stay and protect those left behind, but when they spoke she only heard 'left behind.' And then she felt wave upon wave of hot anger. Had they not seen her with the blade? Had she not trained side by side with her brother-her hateful brother, who she loved, but who always took what she had wanted, and wanted what he might never have. Eomer was older than she, but young still, and irrational more often than not. She was the levelheaded one. She was the one they sought for counsel. Why now would they abandon her?
Oh, they still found uses for her. That was surprisingly simple for them. "Help our comrades to find armor for the oncoming plight, my Lady."
Find armor like a common shield-maiden? Her blood boiled in her veins: but then she remembered, with an enchanted smile, that the Outsiders were mystifying-and she would be alone with each of them in turn.
Gandalf the wizard: he required no armor, but sought to sharpen his sword. It was a wondrous weapon "of elvish make" and on its blade runes were etched that no one in Edoras could read. The handle was wrapped with woven ore and the blade was silvery-blue and lovely. And Gandalf was kind to her, not condescending. He gazed at her with a watchful eye while she spoke; making it evident that he was listening to her every word and yet was able to perceive a good deal that went unspoken.
Gimli the Dwarf from the Northern Lands: he was an amusing fellow, but one whom you found yourself treating with the utmost seriousness and respect. There was a melodrama in his manner-even in the booming depth of his voice. But Eowyn could easily see a true warrior with a fearsome skill with his axe, which he, too, wished to have sharpened. Finding properly- fitting armor was another manner. Luckily, the squat fighter had worn a fine shirt of mail during the quest and needed little else. A helmet in his size was unavailable, but she found a hard cap of leather that suited the Dwarf fine.
Aragorn, the Ranger: or something beyond, though she could not yet understand the sensation she felt that clearly said, "Here is one who is more than he seems even to those who know him well." He was handsome though she sensed many years in his eyes that had not yet affected his face. She felt herself tremble a little when he touched her hand, but she could not pass it off as something like a girlish infatuation. She did not tremble from a little dream of love: she quivered before majesty that was deep in the center of the earth and high above the furthest stars. And he was kind, and wise in his speech. He reminded her of Théoden in his younger years, Théoden when Théodred was still alive...*Oh Théodred, cousin, I shall never forget you!*
And then?
His name slipped off the tongue and fell into a gleaming pool. He stood tall and slender, a column swathed in that shadowy cloak that the Three Hunters wore. He smelled like water and leaves, and something fresh like lavender or a flower she had never smelled, a flower like the niphredil that grew so far away, or not at all, for now distance and myth were one and the same.
His eyes were grey. That should not be unusual to her: nearly everyone in Rohan possessed light-colored eyes, grey the most common of them all. Even she had grey eyes. But this grey-it was a new color altogether. Like starry mist or morning rain: yet deep and fathomless like the sea or an enchanted wood of smooth, silver-barked trees. The color of his eyes seemed to morph when she looked at him: sometimes soft as storm cloud vapor, sometimes steely as a newly tempered blade. Beyond any other physicality, Eowyn knew that the eyes were the most telltale trait of an Elf.
She liked that he knew when to be quiet. She had always had an appreciation for silence, and so it seemed did he. Often they had stood side-by-side, similar in their stance though he was the taller, and they had stared out across the fields sensing (and now, seeing) the oncoming darkness. Yet when Legolas the Elf stood with her, Eowyn found she had no desire to shudder with fear. She had known no fear as of late.
He had scared the Wormtongue away. Or not. He certainly had helped.
She was observant around him more than any of his other companions. She would study his movements carefully. Her few friends, male and female, would come to her side and say, "Tell us of the Elf! What manner of being is he? What does he say to you?"
Alas that he spoke little since the first days of his arrival. After Grìma had fled, he seemed to recede. He appeared to cling to his companions rather than speak to her-but he went to her side in silence when she gazed afar. Or did he? Did he join her just out of curiosity regarding what she spied in the distance? Who could say? Who would dare to guess the mind of an Elf?
Despite this aloofness, she was certain he was kind. It was almost unconscious, his kindness: it was an aura or an inborn essence. She saw it clearly when he was with the horses-it was even there when he cracked a joke at poor Gimli's expense. Yet the kindness was the strongest that morning when she approached him at a window overlooking the western plains. He had heard her coming long before she turned the corner, and was facing her when she looked up and honed her approach.
His gaze was almost cautious. The long fingers resting lightly on the windowsill seemed as though they would spring up at any moment. The wind, coming through the window with the daylight, caused a few strands of his hair to dance across his face, but not one muscle twitched with any sort of irritation. He did not smile, he did not look stern: he simply was open to her for the first time in many, many days.
"Come, sir," she said, finding her voice among the thicket of silence, "Our people have armor and helms that may fit you. Will you follow me to the armory?"
He nodded a little and followed her, but he was mute. She heard the light steps of his feet like a little heartbeat following her wherever she went. His breath was silent. His clothes did not make a sound. Only there were the footfalls. And she let this beat lead them through the main buildings, down the twisting stair, where a young girl, Léofa, awaited their arrival-she was Eowyn's assistant now, with the fittings. Thus they went into the dusty armory.
* * *
Eowyn lifted a light helm off of a hook upon the wall. "Try this one."
Legolas took it from her hands-briefly their fingers touched, and he tried not to stop breathing. He set the helm upon his head. The nose and chin guards slid over the contours of his face perfectly.
"It fits well. You have a good eye." He removed it, and she took it from him and handed it to Léofa to be polished and cleaned. The girl bowed slightly and disappeared down the stairs.
"Our weapons are old. It is long since the Rohirrim have gone to war."
"Yet there are battles to be fought against the wandering orcs. Those are what Eomer combats, are they not?"
"It is not *true* war. A few hackney skirmishes here and there are nothing compared with the trials of our forefathers, when our alliances with the other peoples were stronger."
Legolas tilted his head to the side, gazing at her through discerning, narrowed eyes. "You are lucky to have never known true bloodshed then, to live in more peaceful times at least for a little while." The look she gave him showed that she disagreed, that she found herself the most unfortunate of people in all of Middle-earth.
"All we have left are the stories we sing at feast time, and the soldiers always training in the courtyards like animals obsessively storing rations for a winter that will never come."
"Ah, but it *has* come."
"Yes. It has." She looked at him hard. "You, then, have known war? I wonder, were you at the great Elf-Friend battle?"
He comically realized that she meant the Last Alliance. "No, I was born some years after that war. My Father was there, though, and my grandfather was killed during the first attack."
"Your *Father* was there? That was-that was so many thousands of years ago!"
He looked at her through narrowed eyes, confused. "It was only three thousand."
Her face changed: it broke into a large, beaming smile. "Only three thousand, he says!" she laughed. "Then, pray tell, how old *are* you?"
He had to think for a moment: Elves are not handy with their ages as Men. It is not of great importance to them. "I believe...yes. I am now 2,813 autumns old."
Shaking her head in wonder, she sighed. "And I have but 23 such autumns to my name. Millennia divide us. You must forgive me. I had forgotten your people's life that does not end."
She was the most charming woman he had ever met, and there was a moment that lasted a bit too long before he answered her. Embarrassed, he looked down and said, "It is a wonder we are even known in the South. We are not yet gone from this world, and already we are being forgotten, or written off as myth."
His heartbeat rocketed when she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me when I say that this mortal shall never forget you." Her tone, though casual, was genuine. She sought to lighten his heart more. "Tell me of the battle *you* fought."
"We call it the Battle of Esgaroth, though your people name it the Battle of Five Armies, for in the fight were my father's armada, the Sylvan Elves of Mirkwood; the Dwarves of Erebor; the Men of Laketown; the Mountain Goblins; and the Wargs. My father wanted part of the spoils of victory after the death of the Dragon, Smaug, but the Dwarves were not lenient. He assembled our army to fight them, but then enemies were made into allies when we were ambushed by the orcs. It was a horrible fight. We charged first, having lost many friends to orc treachery, but I do not think we were truly prepared to make that first move. Within the first part of the battle, I lost my friend Arion to a goblin blade."
"I am sorry," Eowyn said, remembering her manners. She had been riveted to the story thus far.
"He died quickly." Legolas curtly sighed, looking away as he remembered that day. "I cannot recall much after that. I took an arrow in the right shoulder by sheer carelessness. It could have been fatal, if I had not but suddenly moved. It almost pierced my lung. I still bear the scar."
"May I see?"
"What?"
She looked at him, confused. "May I see your scar?" she repeated. She did not know that Elves could actually *have* scars.
He looked back, slyly smirking. "Do you not believe me?"
She laughed. "I am only curious. Scars tell stories."
"Of course you may." He reached up and unlaced the catches on the front of his tunic, moving his collar to the right. "There: do you see it? It is almost faded now."
Eowyn edged closer and peered, closer and closer until her breath was warm and gentle on the Elf's skin. "No, I only see the top of your shoulder. Move it further."
Unconsciously nervous, Legolas undid the laces more and slipped his tunic completely off his right shoulder, revealing the top of the plane of his chest. "There."
"Yes, I see!" She reached out and traced the tiny, crescent moon-shaped mark with her finger. "It is light now, but I can tell it was deep." She did not notice his muscles contracting as she touched him, nor the way his inhalation suddenly seemed to cease. "It must have hurt very much."
"More than anything," he breathlessly whispered in agreement.
Startled, Eowyn looked up into his eyes, but her hand rested warm upon his skin. Legolas looked back, suddenly unafraid, unashamed of his obvious behavior. The world was frozen, waiting. Waiting and waiting. Her gray-blue eyes were cautious, but not nervous. They were measuring what they saw. They were softening. She was waiting, too.
His eyes were gray, but green as well. She saw lines as lovely and smooth as brushstrokes on his irises, the color of moss light by sunlight. His lips were parted ever so slightly. He looked at her as though he were seeing through her, glimpsing something beyond. And when swiftly and gracefully he leaned and placed his mouth on hers, she did not try to stop him. It was the greatest gift she had ever received.
The first time Legolas kissed Eowyn was a moment that neither of them ever forgot, and it was memory each recalled in times of great sorrow or strife. It lasted for only a moment, but it triggered something remarkable. For she had never been kissed like that, and nor had he. It was alien and strange, yet it felt right.
As quickly as he had initiated it, Legolas pulled away with a light breath, his eyes wide with fear and wonder. He pulled up the fallen collar of his tunic, hiding his warm skin from her sight. And the power in her eyes was radiating, and the scent of her hair was intoxicating...and he was slipping away. He was horrified, realizing that he had been the catalyst in something monumental and irreversible.
Never before had an Elf given himself fully to a mortal maiden.
The silence of the room was disturbed only by the voices of Men outside who went on with their lives, unaware that history had changed in the dusty little storehouse near the back of the compound.
* * *
Time ceased and sped by, swift as breathing, swift as stars, and perhaps an instant had passed, perhaps an age, before Legolas and Eowyn simultaneously broke the bond they had forged by staring at each other in wonder. Their gazes simply fell at an unspoken agreement. The universe exhaled.
Silence passed by like ripples extending, repeating, and expanding across an endless pond. Light danced off of shields and spearheads, speckling the floor and their skin with rings of sunshine. Eons passed: centuries flew by. They remained rigid and painfully aware of each other. Eowyn was the stronger of the two at that moment. Perhaps her frail mortality shielded her from the irrevocability of their crime. Perhaps she was simply, agonizingly ignorant. Whatever it was, she lifted her hand, extending the palm to him and said, "I have taken an ill step, my lord, and, perhaps, so have you." She waited, and then continued, "Forgive me."
Legolas looked up, something indefinable shining in his eyes. He looked both ravenous and fearful-young, old, afraid, in love. Who was she to try to decipher the face of an Elf? Yet was that...could an Elf blush? Even slightly? Or was it simply a trick of the light?
"Lady Eowyn-" and then he stopped, as though his tongue had suddenly failed him. Eventually, he found his voice and went on, "I beg your forgiveness for my trespassing. I-I am not like that."
"Like what?"
Was she toying with him? Now? "I am-it is not our way," was all he said, shutting his mouth, speechless as a scolded child.
Eowyn studied him for a moment and she watched his eyes like a panther. The pupils had contracted, and he stared at the ground as though he expected her to hit him. But she was still, observant, but never judgmental, and in her silence she found a memory.
"I saw you in a dream," Eowyn whispered.
Legolas froze, tense with wonder.
"I was in a field, alight with stars as far as the eye could see. The moon was full and bright, and all the grass looked silver. I though I was alone and lost, until I felt something watching me. But I wasn't frightened by it. I turned and there was someone unlike any Man I had ever seen: fairer, tall, glowing in the moonlight as if under a veil. He looked surprised, but then he smiled and reached out for me. I wanted to run toward him, but then I was afraid indeed. I had never seen one of the Elder People in real life. I thought he might judge me as they say they can, using their eyes to see into one's soul." She stopped, as though ashamed. "I am never afraid. Then, as I began to slowly come toward him, he faded away and I awoke." She sighed looking up. "But now I know it was you. Clad as you are now, in dark greens like a forest, with silver eyes. I knew you when you came here by your eyes."
"You saw me," he whispered, looking away in amazement.
"Without a doubt."
And his heart and mind were one, leaping back to his memory of the vision in Galadriel's gleaming Mirror. "Did you see the Shadow? The one in the sky? It was coming for you, but I had no voice to warn-"
"You had the same dream?" she gasped.
"A dream? No, a vision. I saw you clearly as you are now, upon the same field. But there was a Shadow and it came through the sky, blotting out the stars. You did not see it?" His eyes were wild with fear. "Tell me you saw it."
"But I did not," she replied warily.
"Alas, then," he sighed, defeated. "I know not what it meant. Yet if our meeting came true, I fear it shall manifest as well." He turned a smile to her, full of hope and something like joyful sadness. "But you defeated it. You will defeat it again, no matter what it is. I see it in you, Eowyn, the strength that others may only guess at. It is like a melody that follows you, an unwavering rustle in the grass of Rohan's wide fields."
She tried to understand him, but he seemed even more different now-yet still she moved forward a little and let him drape his slender arms around her waist.
"Ithilwen," he whispered, his breath on her forehead, and closed his eyes, and slipped away. Let the moment last. Their lives were of little importance. Especially his: he was a pawn. She was a goddess.
"What is that word?"
"It means 'moon-maiden.' For you came to me in a dream lit by the light of the moon, and by something else. You are lit by the breath of Varda, by the mingling comets of Tilion and Arien-"
"Such words!" Eowyn laughed, pulling away a little. "I scarcely know what they mean." She looked at him sternly. "Speak simply, lord. I am a simple girl, not a-a moon maiden, or a comet, or a thing of the air. I am here. I am of the earth, more so than you." And to herself, she admired the dark fall of his hair, a sheet as smooth and glossy as water, the pools of his eyes. *You are a thing of all the elements-I see much water. I see the Sea.*
He looked up as though having snapped out of a dream, as though he could read her thoughts. "I must go."
She blinked.
"I take my leave of you, my lady."
"And if I do not grant it?"
He froze again, his heart pounding.
She smiled. "Let us part as friends, Legolas Greenleaf. Grant me that?"
He looked up, marveling at her conduct. "Mellonae. Friends," he agreed, not smiling, for then a moment later he spun on his heel and swiftly quitted the armory, scaling the staircase, gasping in the sunlight, startling a boy on his horse nearby. The wind picked up and the grasses caressed each other, and each blade sang of Eowyn.
She had been calm at the parting. She had been-impassive. And Legolas was reminded once more that he was nothing. He-was-nothing. He meant nothing to the quest, the world, to her, he was an odd little memory she might recall someday, he was a secret she would whisper to a best friend.
Nothing.
But there were two voices in the wind: one was terrible and one was astounding. Both were commanding, both seemed impossibly strong-and he heard, from the East, from the smoky air of Mordor, a little whisper that gnawed at his heart. It called as Galadriel had warned it would call.
But Galadriel had not warned him of the voice that came from the West, from beyond, the voice that came from something impossible for an Elf to behold. And Galadriel had not warned him of the third voice: the voice of a mortal maiden that was greater than the other two.
* * *
She stood alone, soundless and still as a pillar in the dust that had swirled up by his departure, and she realized he had left no scent upon her lips. Not one strand of her hair was out of place. No footprints marked the ground. It might have all been a dream, if not for the steady ministrations of her heart.
She had been right about him. He was a thing of water, and like such a thing, he had simply flowed through her fingers and away, seeping into the earth, misting into the heavens.
* * *
He would not meet her eyes. At night, there was a great feast. They had sat him near to her, a bit to her left, across the table. He barely touched his food, downed one glass of wine, and spent the whole time conversing with Gimli in a very immersed manner. She tried to catch his eye, seeking to guess his mind, but the wall around him was made of ice and fortified with a thousand invisible spears.
Ah, but Théoden was sitting tall again. And Aragorn was interested in holding her conversation. She indulged him, but there was something distracting across the table.
Aragorn was able to draw the Elf's attention once. "Legolas, my friend, the Lady Eowyn says you spoke of the Last Alliance, and of your forefathers."
Legolas smiled blankly. "Indeed. The Lady has an interest in my people, which is a pleasure to behold in these times, our twilight."
She saw a light go out in his eyes when he said, 'twilight.'
Aragorn smiled. "Say not so, my friend. Say not so. There are more like this Lady than you think. If I should come into my own, then all shall know of the great kindnesses of the Eldar."
Legolas smiled again, and turned back to Gimli, and was lost.
* * *
He loved her, and there was nothing he could do about it. Her eyes were painful on his skin. 'Friends.' It was torment. He wanted to be far away-but he knew no land would ever hold peace for his heart.
* * *
Battle came, as it would. And Eowyn was left alone. She was used to being alone. Eomer, though he loved her greatly, was of a different mind. He had friends who shared his council. She was deemed cold by many of the Rohirrim-her friends were few.
Even *he* had left her alone. For then he went with the others. Battle called to them all, but only some could respond and she was not among that select few. It named him a victim, and Aragorn, and the wizard and the dwarf, even her brother, even her uncle, though old. She was truly the only one left.
Léofa was there, clinging to her side. Eowyn had begun to despise this little girl. She followed like a shadow, at once hindering and worshipful. She proved to be a great obstacle when a secret was revealed- and it was to be revealed the day before the departure of the massing army.
* * *
"My lady?"
Léofa stood in the doorway, her mouth stupidly agape, and Eowyn froze with the helm in her hands, the mail shirt hanging off the feminine curves of her body. She blinked and Léofa blinked and then the lady felt her blood boil.
"You have seen nothing," Eowyn hissed.
"But, my Lady-"
"Be quiet, you stupid girl!" Eowyn snapped. She tossed the sword she held into her right hand and brought the tip to the trembling girl's throat in a perfect, swooping arc. "Do as I say and you shall be rewarded, but cross me and you shall taste more than my blade. I am not afraid of anything."
Léofa was so fearful that she was going white from not breathing. Her limbs shook like an aspen tree.
Satisfied, Eowyn lowered the sword and let it clatter upon the ground. The sound shocked Léofa back to reality and the girl collapsed at Eowyn's feet, shuddering with messy sobs and sticky tears. But Eowyn was cold. She was the glacier of the distant mountains. No, there were no mountains in Rohan, but she had seen the last part of the Misty range not long ago. She was like its icy peaks: treacherous, enigmatic, impossibly dangerous, horrifyingly-beautiful. Of that there was no question. She held up a polished shield and gazed at the woman who stared back. Her skin was glowing, her hair so many shades of gold. She was proud of the indifference in her eyes. It was the one thing that could make a warrior beautiful.
She stopped.
Legolas was a warrior, too. But he was unlike any she had encountered before. Just by speaking with him, she knew there was still passion in his eyes when he wielded his blade or let loose his venomous arrows. His face must still harbor something that looked like sadness even when he sank his knife into an enemy, blood running down the hilt onto his strong, slender hands. The soldiers of Rohan were taught to fall into the mind of the wolf pack, though not of the Wargs: in a team one was stronger, but all had the same pursuit. What did the Elves see in keeping an emotional state of presence? What compassion could they find for the hideous, pitiless, and savage orcs? Wisdom, beauty, and lethality: in these, he was her equal. He was her negative, her other half...save this one great difference. He felt, while she was all coldness. He was Elven. He was her superior. Ice. Like the moon: white, gleaming, all alone, unfazed by the surrounding darkness.
"Ithilwen," she whispered to no one and her realization sealed the gap between them. Was it something like the devotion a young warrior has for his admired captain? Yes. But even Eowyn knew it was something more.
Another rift was closed. Race and destiny had meant to rent them apart, but Eowyn was here and Eowyn had a new plan. She needed to understand him, for her own sake. She needed to understand Legolas Greenleaf of the Elves of Mirkwood, the prince of a dwindling race. Yet how could a people as powerful and benevolent as the Elves dwindle? How could he render himself helpless before her? And what had happened in the armory? She knew it was greater than the two of them. It was greater than Elves and Men and anything they might do.
She would find him, and find out, but not now. Now she would watch him. She would study his ways, his every movement, for such study would be a pleasure, if not a privilege.
She would become one with him.
-Fin-
Review and ye shall be rewarded-with, um, seven minutes alone with Legolas in a dark closet. I have influence YET...right...
Continued in Chapter XV - The Battle of Helm's Deep
I hope this wasn't too much of a cliffhanger? I'm such an abuser of the cliffhanger ending. You must forgive me! I shall try to not end on cliffhangers anymore.
I love my readers. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I love you. As much as Legolas loves Eowyn, in fact (insert lyrical hodgepodge here). I even love the mean reviews. Am I a sadomasochist or what?
You are the lovely reasons for my continued writing, but I must say, it is terribly hard to sate your appetites. For my own sake, I have to ask for a little more lenience in the time department. I'm spitting out chapters as fast as I can. I don't want to give you total swill. I like to make them good enough at least for posting. And thank you for giving me 100 reviews! Crikey.
Oh, and the last thing I'll say on the subject of Elf hair (a popular topic, non?) is this: read the appendix of LOTR! The last thing written therein is about the Elves, and in this ending chunk of text it says: "Their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finarfin." House of Finarfin you say? That means Galadriel, Finrod and all their crew.part of this family tree the Mirkwood elves are not. They're Sindarin: Gray Elves, Moriquendi, whatever you'd like to call them. But honestly.WHO CARES? Live freely! Let imagination run wild! Maybe your Legolas has blue hair. Terrific.
Please realize that I am not going to make that many changes to the original plot. Yes, this story is about the bond between Eowyn and Legolas- but Faramir is going to feature, and in full force. Love triangles are fun to write, but no fun to be in.
Chapter XIV - The Armory
The dreamy days had somehow melted into weeks. These were short and filled with fleeting moments that sent Legolas' heart to his throat with fear. She was rather intimidating. She was so brave, so fearless-he felt like a gust of wind in the shadow of a mighty storm.
The prospect of battle had ignited something subtly keen in Eowyn's eyes. Her stance was statuesquely taut, but not rigid. Her movements were precise and quick, like the practiced techniques of a combat master gesturing to his lined-up pupils. But Eowyn was a silent adviser: she spoke to everyone in her stillness. She inspired each eye that fell upon her. In effect, she was the model of the perfect warrior without so much as lifting a finger.
There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that Eowyn was a warrior. It was something deeper than the fact that she had obviously been raised in this cavalry-based culture. Her steps were like the ringing of polished steel, her glance that of a skilled hunter. Perhaps it was something instilled in her blood. He had seen a little of it in Eomer as well.
How amusing to realize that Eomer and Eowyn were brother and sister! That certainly explained some of Legolas' uneasiness when they had first encounter the Rohirrim. And Eomer was certainly more amiable now, though weary and afraid whereas Eowyn was fiercely proud and shining. She was a beacon to everyone as the finality of war came upon them. Even Gandalf cast a searching eye on her face, as though he perceived something grave and mysterious that she had hidden away from them-something that was beautiful and unexpected, and would show itself quite soon.
* * *
"An Elf has come to Rohan," Eowyn whispered to the night, for she had heard in a story that the night belonged to the Elves, that their souls were doubled in that world, and that each star matched its Elven soul upon the land of Middle-earth; for every star their was an Elven spirit. She remembered the stories of their deeds that seemed both heroic and sad. Mostly there was sadness, but she liked sadness. It was profound. She loved all that was profound, even in the briefest, slightest way.
And Eowyn was young, but not too young. She was old enough to conduct herself with tact and grace. She was the daughter of a proud line of kings and exceeded all the expectations laid before her. But now...she found herself stepping back to gaze in awe.
Outsiders seldom came. There was no safe route to Rohan with the wandering tribes of orcs that picked at the population like a subtle plague. Eowyn was faced with restrictions: no riding without escort was the rule she rued the most. Why was she tied down while her brother was permitted to roam as he would? Everyone seemed to have some preconception of her-everyone except this being of another world and also, it seemed, another time.
War.
They told her she would stay and protect those left behind, but when they spoke she only heard 'left behind.' And then she felt wave upon wave of hot anger. Had they not seen her with the blade? Had she not trained side by side with her brother-her hateful brother, who she loved, but who always took what she had wanted, and wanted what he might never have. Eomer was older than she, but young still, and irrational more often than not. She was the levelheaded one. She was the one they sought for counsel. Why now would they abandon her?
Oh, they still found uses for her. That was surprisingly simple for them. "Help our comrades to find armor for the oncoming plight, my Lady."
Find armor like a common shield-maiden? Her blood boiled in her veins: but then she remembered, with an enchanted smile, that the Outsiders were mystifying-and she would be alone with each of them in turn.
Gandalf the wizard: he required no armor, but sought to sharpen his sword. It was a wondrous weapon "of elvish make" and on its blade runes were etched that no one in Edoras could read. The handle was wrapped with woven ore and the blade was silvery-blue and lovely. And Gandalf was kind to her, not condescending. He gazed at her with a watchful eye while she spoke; making it evident that he was listening to her every word and yet was able to perceive a good deal that went unspoken.
Gimli the Dwarf from the Northern Lands: he was an amusing fellow, but one whom you found yourself treating with the utmost seriousness and respect. There was a melodrama in his manner-even in the booming depth of his voice. But Eowyn could easily see a true warrior with a fearsome skill with his axe, which he, too, wished to have sharpened. Finding properly- fitting armor was another manner. Luckily, the squat fighter had worn a fine shirt of mail during the quest and needed little else. A helmet in his size was unavailable, but she found a hard cap of leather that suited the Dwarf fine.
Aragorn, the Ranger: or something beyond, though she could not yet understand the sensation she felt that clearly said, "Here is one who is more than he seems even to those who know him well." He was handsome though she sensed many years in his eyes that had not yet affected his face. She felt herself tremble a little when he touched her hand, but she could not pass it off as something like a girlish infatuation. She did not tremble from a little dream of love: she quivered before majesty that was deep in the center of the earth and high above the furthest stars. And he was kind, and wise in his speech. He reminded her of Théoden in his younger years, Théoden when Théodred was still alive...*Oh Théodred, cousin, I shall never forget you!*
And then?
His name slipped off the tongue and fell into a gleaming pool. He stood tall and slender, a column swathed in that shadowy cloak that the Three Hunters wore. He smelled like water and leaves, and something fresh like lavender or a flower she had never smelled, a flower like the niphredil that grew so far away, or not at all, for now distance and myth were one and the same.
His eyes were grey. That should not be unusual to her: nearly everyone in Rohan possessed light-colored eyes, grey the most common of them all. Even she had grey eyes. But this grey-it was a new color altogether. Like starry mist or morning rain: yet deep and fathomless like the sea or an enchanted wood of smooth, silver-barked trees. The color of his eyes seemed to morph when she looked at him: sometimes soft as storm cloud vapor, sometimes steely as a newly tempered blade. Beyond any other physicality, Eowyn knew that the eyes were the most telltale trait of an Elf.
She liked that he knew when to be quiet. She had always had an appreciation for silence, and so it seemed did he. Often they had stood side-by-side, similar in their stance though he was the taller, and they had stared out across the fields sensing (and now, seeing) the oncoming darkness. Yet when Legolas the Elf stood with her, Eowyn found she had no desire to shudder with fear. She had known no fear as of late.
He had scared the Wormtongue away. Or not. He certainly had helped.
She was observant around him more than any of his other companions. She would study his movements carefully. Her few friends, male and female, would come to her side and say, "Tell us of the Elf! What manner of being is he? What does he say to you?"
Alas that he spoke little since the first days of his arrival. After Grìma had fled, he seemed to recede. He appeared to cling to his companions rather than speak to her-but he went to her side in silence when she gazed afar. Or did he? Did he join her just out of curiosity regarding what she spied in the distance? Who could say? Who would dare to guess the mind of an Elf?
Despite this aloofness, she was certain he was kind. It was almost unconscious, his kindness: it was an aura or an inborn essence. She saw it clearly when he was with the horses-it was even there when he cracked a joke at poor Gimli's expense. Yet the kindness was the strongest that morning when she approached him at a window overlooking the western plains. He had heard her coming long before she turned the corner, and was facing her when she looked up and honed her approach.
His gaze was almost cautious. The long fingers resting lightly on the windowsill seemed as though they would spring up at any moment. The wind, coming through the window with the daylight, caused a few strands of his hair to dance across his face, but not one muscle twitched with any sort of irritation. He did not smile, he did not look stern: he simply was open to her for the first time in many, many days.
"Come, sir," she said, finding her voice among the thicket of silence, "Our people have armor and helms that may fit you. Will you follow me to the armory?"
He nodded a little and followed her, but he was mute. She heard the light steps of his feet like a little heartbeat following her wherever she went. His breath was silent. His clothes did not make a sound. Only there were the footfalls. And she let this beat lead them through the main buildings, down the twisting stair, where a young girl, Léofa, awaited their arrival-she was Eowyn's assistant now, with the fittings. Thus they went into the dusty armory.
* * *
Eowyn lifted a light helm off of a hook upon the wall. "Try this one."
Legolas took it from her hands-briefly their fingers touched, and he tried not to stop breathing. He set the helm upon his head. The nose and chin guards slid over the contours of his face perfectly.
"It fits well. You have a good eye." He removed it, and she took it from him and handed it to Léofa to be polished and cleaned. The girl bowed slightly and disappeared down the stairs.
"Our weapons are old. It is long since the Rohirrim have gone to war."
"Yet there are battles to be fought against the wandering orcs. Those are what Eomer combats, are they not?"
"It is not *true* war. A few hackney skirmishes here and there are nothing compared with the trials of our forefathers, when our alliances with the other peoples were stronger."
Legolas tilted his head to the side, gazing at her through discerning, narrowed eyes. "You are lucky to have never known true bloodshed then, to live in more peaceful times at least for a little while." The look she gave him showed that she disagreed, that she found herself the most unfortunate of people in all of Middle-earth.
"All we have left are the stories we sing at feast time, and the soldiers always training in the courtyards like animals obsessively storing rations for a winter that will never come."
"Ah, but it *has* come."
"Yes. It has." She looked at him hard. "You, then, have known war? I wonder, were you at the great Elf-Friend battle?"
He comically realized that she meant the Last Alliance. "No, I was born some years after that war. My Father was there, though, and my grandfather was killed during the first attack."
"Your *Father* was there? That was-that was so many thousands of years ago!"
He looked at her through narrowed eyes, confused. "It was only three thousand."
Her face changed: it broke into a large, beaming smile. "Only three thousand, he says!" she laughed. "Then, pray tell, how old *are* you?"
He had to think for a moment: Elves are not handy with their ages as Men. It is not of great importance to them. "I believe...yes. I am now 2,813 autumns old."
Shaking her head in wonder, she sighed. "And I have but 23 such autumns to my name. Millennia divide us. You must forgive me. I had forgotten your people's life that does not end."
She was the most charming woman he had ever met, and there was a moment that lasted a bit too long before he answered her. Embarrassed, he looked down and said, "It is a wonder we are even known in the South. We are not yet gone from this world, and already we are being forgotten, or written off as myth."
His heartbeat rocketed when she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me when I say that this mortal shall never forget you." Her tone, though casual, was genuine. She sought to lighten his heart more. "Tell me of the battle *you* fought."
"We call it the Battle of Esgaroth, though your people name it the Battle of Five Armies, for in the fight were my father's armada, the Sylvan Elves of Mirkwood; the Dwarves of Erebor; the Men of Laketown; the Mountain Goblins; and the Wargs. My father wanted part of the spoils of victory after the death of the Dragon, Smaug, but the Dwarves were not lenient. He assembled our army to fight them, but then enemies were made into allies when we were ambushed by the orcs. It was a horrible fight. We charged first, having lost many friends to orc treachery, but I do not think we were truly prepared to make that first move. Within the first part of the battle, I lost my friend Arion to a goblin blade."
"I am sorry," Eowyn said, remembering her manners. She had been riveted to the story thus far.
"He died quickly." Legolas curtly sighed, looking away as he remembered that day. "I cannot recall much after that. I took an arrow in the right shoulder by sheer carelessness. It could have been fatal, if I had not but suddenly moved. It almost pierced my lung. I still bear the scar."
"May I see?"
"What?"
She looked at him, confused. "May I see your scar?" she repeated. She did not know that Elves could actually *have* scars.
He looked back, slyly smirking. "Do you not believe me?"
She laughed. "I am only curious. Scars tell stories."
"Of course you may." He reached up and unlaced the catches on the front of his tunic, moving his collar to the right. "There: do you see it? It is almost faded now."
Eowyn edged closer and peered, closer and closer until her breath was warm and gentle on the Elf's skin. "No, I only see the top of your shoulder. Move it further."
Unconsciously nervous, Legolas undid the laces more and slipped his tunic completely off his right shoulder, revealing the top of the plane of his chest. "There."
"Yes, I see!" She reached out and traced the tiny, crescent moon-shaped mark with her finger. "It is light now, but I can tell it was deep." She did not notice his muscles contracting as she touched him, nor the way his inhalation suddenly seemed to cease. "It must have hurt very much."
"More than anything," he breathlessly whispered in agreement.
Startled, Eowyn looked up into his eyes, but her hand rested warm upon his skin. Legolas looked back, suddenly unafraid, unashamed of his obvious behavior. The world was frozen, waiting. Waiting and waiting. Her gray-blue eyes were cautious, but not nervous. They were measuring what they saw. They were softening. She was waiting, too.
His eyes were gray, but green as well. She saw lines as lovely and smooth as brushstrokes on his irises, the color of moss light by sunlight. His lips were parted ever so slightly. He looked at her as though he were seeing through her, glimpsing something beyond. And when swiftly and gracefully he leaned and placed his mouth on hers, she did not try to stop him. It was the greatest gift she had ever received.
The first time Legolas kissed Eowyn was a moment that neither of them ever forgot, and it was memory each recalled in times of great sorrow or strife. It lasted for only a moment, but it triggered something remarkable. For she had never been kissed like that, and nor had he. It was alien and strange, yet it felt right.
As quickly as he had initiated it, Legolas pulled away with a light breath, his eyes wide with fear and wonder. He pulled up the fallen collar of his tunic, hiding his warm skin from her sight. And the power in her eyes was radiating, and the scent of her hair was intoxicating...and he was slipping away. He was horrified, realizing that he had been the catalyst in something monumental and irreversible.
Never before had an Elf given himself fully to a mortal maiden.
The silence of the room was disturbed only by the voices of Men outside who went on with their lives, unaware that history had changed in the dusty little storehouse near the back of the compound.
* * *
Time ceased and sped by, swift as breathing, swift as stars, and perhaps an instant had passed, perhaps an age, before Legolas and Eowyn simultaneously broke the bond they had forged by staring at each other in wonder. Their gazes simply fell at an unspoken agreement. The universe exhaled.
Silence passed by like ripples extending, repeating, and expanding across an endless pond. Light danced off of shields and spearheads, speckling the floor and their skin with rings of sunshine. Eons passed: centuries flew by. They remained rigid and painfully aware of each other. Eowyn was the stronger of the two at that moment. Perhaps her frail mortality shielded her from the irrevocability of their crime. Perhaps she was simply, agonizingly ignorant. Whatever it was, she lifted her hand, extending the palm to him and said, "I have taken an ill step, my lord, and, perhaps, so have you." She waited, and then continued, "Forgive me."
Legolas looked up, something indefinable shining in his eyes. He looked both ravenous and fearful-young, old, afraid, in love. Who was she to try to decipher the face of an Elf? Yet was that...could an Elf blush? Even slightly? Or was it simply a trick of the light?
"Lady Eowyn-" and then he stopped, as though his tongue had suddenly failed him. Eventually, he found his voice and went on, "I beg your forgiveness for my trespassing. I-I am not like that."
"Like what?"
Was she toying with him? Now? "I am-it is not our way," was all he said, shutting his mouth, speechless as a scolded child.
Eowyn studied him for a moment and she watched his eyes like a panther. The pupils had contracted, and he stared at the ground as though he expected her to hit him. But she was still, observant, but never judgmental, and in her silence she found a memory.
"I saw you in a dream," Eowyn whispered.
Legolas froze, tense with wonder.
"I was in a field, alight with stars as far as the eye could see. The moon was full and bright, and all the grass looked silver. I though I was alone and lost, until I felt something watching me. But I wasn't frightened by it. I turned and there was someone unlike any Man I had ever seen: fairer, tall, glowing in the moonlight as if under a veil. He looked surprised, but then he smiled and reached out for me. I wanted to run toward him, but then I was afraid indeed. I had never seen one of the Elder People in real life. I thought he might judge me as they say they can, using their eyes to see into one's soul." She stopped, as though ashamed. "I am never afraid. Then, as I began to slowly come toward him, he faded away and I awoke." She sighed looking up. "But now I know it was you. Clad as you are now, in dark greens like a forest, with silver eyes. I knew you when you came here by your eyes."
"You saw me," he whispered, looking away in amazement.
"Without a doubt."
And his heart and mind were one, leaping back to his memory of the vision in Galadriel's gleaming Mirror. "Did you see the Shadow? The one in the sky? It was coming for you, but I had no voice to warn-"
"You had the same dream?" she gasped.
"A dream? No, a vision. I saw you clearly as you are now, upon the same field. But there was a Shadow and it came through the sky, blotting out the stars. You did not see it?" His eyes were wild with fear. "Tell me you saw it."
"But I did not," she replied warily.
"Alas, then," he sighed, defeated. "I know not what it meant. Yet if our meeting came true, I fear it shall manifest as well." He turned a smile to her, full of hope and something like joyful sadness. "But you defeated it. You will defeat it again, no matter what it is. I see it in you, Eowyn, the strength that others may only guess at. It is like a melody that follows you, an unwavering rustle in the grass of Rohan's wide fields."
She tried to understand him, but he seemed even more different now-yet still she moved forward a little and let him drape his slender arms around her waist.
"Ithilwen," he whispered, his breath on her forehead, and closed his eyes, and slipped away. Let the moment last. Their lives were of little importance. Especially his: he was a pawn. She was a goddess.
"What is that word?"
"It means 'moon-maiden.' For you came to me in a dream lit by the light of the moon, and by something else. You are lit by the breath of Varda, by the mingling comets of Tilion and Arien-"
"Such words!" Eowyn laughed, pulling away a little. "I scarcely know what they mean." She looked at him sternly. "Speak simply, lord. I am a simple girl, not a-a moon maiden, or a comet, or a thing of the air. I am here. I am of the earth, more so than you." And to herself, she admired the dark fall of his hair, a sheet as smooth and glossy as water, the pools of his eyes. *You are a thing of all the elements-I see much water. I see the Sea.*
He looked up as though having snapped out of a dream, as though he could read her thoughts. "I must go."
She blinked.
"I take my leave of you, my lady."
"And if I do not grant it?"
He froze again, his heart pounding.
She smiled. "Let us part as friends, Legolas Greenleaf. Grant me that?"
He looked up, marveling at her conduct. "Mellonae. Friends," he agreed, not smiling, for then a moment later he spun on his heel and swiftly quitted the armory, scaling the staircase, gasping in the sunlight, startling a boy on his horse nearby. The wind picked up and the grasses caressed each other, and each blade sang of Eowyn.
She had been calm at the parting. She had been-impassive. And Legolas was reminded once more that he was nothing. He-was-nothing. He meant nothing to the quest, the world, to her, he was an odd little memory she might recall someday, he was a secret she would whisper to a best friend.
Nothing.
But there were two voices in the wind: one was terrible and one was astounding. Both were commanding, both seemed impossibly strong-and he heard, from the East, from the smoky air of Mordor, a little whisper that gnawed at his heart. It called as Galadriel had warned it would call.
But Galadriel had not warned him of the voice that came from the West, from beyond, the voice that came from something impossible for an Elf to behold. And Galadriel had not warned him of the third voice: the voice of a mortal maiden that was greater than the other two.
* * *
She stood alone, soundless and still as a pillar in the dust that had swirled up by his departure, and she realized he had left no scent upon her lips. Not one strand of her hair was out of place. No footprints marked the ground. It might have all been a dream, if not for the steady ministrations of her heart.
She had been right about him. He was a thing of water, and like such a thing, he had simply flowed through her fingers and away, seeping into the earth, misting into the heavens.
* * *
He would not meet her eyes. At night, there was a great feast. They had sat him near to her, a bit to her left, across the table. He barely touched his food, downed one glass of wine, and spent the whole time conversing with Gimli in a very immersed manner. She tried to catch his eye, seeking to guess his mind, but the wall around him was made of ice and fortified with a thousand invisible spears.
Ah, but Théoden was sitting tall again. And Aragorn was interested in holding her conversation. She indulged him, but there was something distracting across the table.
Aragorn was able to draw the Elf's attention once. "Legolas, my friend, the Lady Eowyn says you spoke of the Last Alliance, and of your forefathers."
Legolas smiled blankly. "Indeed. The Lady has an interest in my people, which is a pleasure to behold in these times, our twilight."
She saw a light go out in his eyes when he said, 'twilight.'
Aragorn smiled. "Say not so, my friend. Say not so. There are more like this Lady than you think. If I should come into my own, then all shall know of the great kindnesses of the Eldar."
Legolas smiled again, and turned back to Gimli, and was lost.
* * *
He loved her, and there was nothing he could do about it. Her eyes were painful on his skin. 'Friends.' It was torment. He wanted to be far away-but he knew no land would ever hold peace for his heart.
* * *
Battle came, as it would. And Eowyn was left alone. She was used to being alone. Eomer, though he loved her greatly, was of a different mind. He had friends who shared his council. She was deemed cold by many of the Rohirrim-her friends were few.
Even *he* had left her alone. For then he went with the others. Battle called to them all, but only some could respond and she was not among that select few. It named him a victim, and Aragorn, and the wizard and the dwarf, even her brother, even her uncle, though old. She was truly the only one left.
Léofa was there, clinging to her side. Eowyn had begun to despise this little girl. She followed like a shadow, at once hindering and worshipful. She proved to be a great obstacle when a secret was revealed- and it was to be revealed the day before the departure of the massing army.
* * *
"My lady?"
Léofa stood in the doorway, her mouth stupidly agape, and Eowyn froze with the helm in her hands, the mail shirt hanging off the feminine curves of her body. She blinked and Léofa blinked and then the lady felt her blood boil.
"You have seen nothing," Eowyn hissed.
"But, my Lady-"
"Be quiet, you stupid girl!" Eowyn snapped. She tossed the sword she held into her right hand and brought the tip to the trembling girl's throat in a perfect, swooping arc. "Do as I say and you shall be rewarded, but cross me and you shall taste more than my blade. I am not afraid of anything."
Léofa was so fearful that she was going white from not breathing. Her limbs shook like an aspen tree.
Satisfied, Eowyn lowered the sword and let it clatter upon the ground. The sound shocked Léofa back to reality and the girl collapsed at Eowyn's feet, shuddering with messy sobs and sticky tears. But Eowyn was cold. She was the glacier of the distant mountains. No, there were no mountains in Rohan, but she had seen the last part of the Misty range not long ago. She was like its icy peaks: treacherous, enigmatic, impossibly dangerous, horrifyingly-beautiful. Of that there was no question. She held up a polished shield and gazed at the woman who stared back. Her skin was glowing, her hair so many shades of gold. She was proud of the indifference in her eyes. It was the one thing that could make a warrior beautiful.
She stopped.
Legolas was a warrior, too. But he was unlike any she had encountered before. Just by speaking with him, she knew there was still passion in his eyes when he wielded his blade or let loose his venomous arrows. His face must still harbor something that looked like sadness even when he sank his knife into an enemy, blood running down the hilt onto his strong, slender hands. The soldiers of Rohan were taught to fall into the mind of the wolf pack, though not of the Wargs: in a team one was stronger, but all had the same pursuit. What did the Elves see in keeping an emotional state of presence? What compassion could they find for the hideous, pitiless, and savage orcs? Wisdom, beauty, and lethality: in these, he was her equal. He was her negative, her other half...save this one great difference. He felt, while she was all coldness. He was Elven. He was her superior. Ice. Like the moon: white, gleaming, all alone, unfazed by the surrounding darkness.
"Ithilwen," she whispered to no one and her realization sealed the gap between them. Was it something like the devotion a young warrior has for his admired captain? Yes. But even Eowyn knew it was something more.
Another rift was closed. Race and destiny had meant to rent them apart, but Eowyn was here and Eowyn had a new plan. She needed to understand him, for her own sake. She needed to understand Legolas Greenleaf of the Elves of Mirkwood, the prince of a dwindling race. Yet how could a people as powerful and benevolent as the Elves dwindle? How could he render himself helpless before her? And what had happened in the armory? She knew it was greater than the two of them. It was greater than Elves and Men and anything they might do.
She would find him, and find out, but not now. Now she would watch him. She would study his ways, his every movement, for such study would be a pleasure, if not a privilege.
She would become one with him.
-Fin-
Review and ye shall be rewarded-with, um, seven minutes alone with Legolas in a dark closet. I have influence YET...right...
Continued in Chapter XV - The Battle of Helm's Deep
I hope this wasn't too much of a cliffhanger? I'm such an abuser of the cliffhanger ending. You must forgive me! I shall try to not end on cliffhangers anymore.