2

The Rohirrim had reached Edoras safely, planning to stay there only over night. The next morning promised to be another day of a highly unenjoyable game of cat and mouse: hunter and hunted. The men went quietly to their homes and nothing was spoken that night for all of them were weary. They slept well, inside a fire warmed house and had the pleasure of a hot meal. They readied to ride the next morning, but a page came from the palace with a message that greeted their ears, "The weather is still too brutal. Take another day to enjoy yourselves!" The men drank and ate and sang all day, merrily humming tunes of winter. They went to bed yet again.

A bleak dawn arrived the next morning, however. The sky was overcast, and looked to be preparing to pour another load of snow unto them. Éomer and his men rode out into this dawn, well rested and well fed, ready for another day of hardly renowned work. After only a few hours and many leagues from the city, the passive sky unleashed its fury in a surprise attack of a blizzard. Once again, due to the harsh weather, Éomer was forced to order his men to retreat to the shelter of Edoras. He quickly sent the order and they were hurrying through the fresh powder.

Éomer and his men were still struggling through the storm, which had considerably worsened, when one of the riders began experiencing problems with his horse. His steed shrilly neighed and snorted, prancing around and threatening to throw his rider.

"Arod!" he cried. "What madness is this?" Just as the horse began to calm down and ride respectfully among the ranks, he stopped suddenly and firmly in the snow and refused to go any further. "Arod! Move on!" cried his master. But Arod refused to venture another stride. He reared in fury and anger, dumping his rider in the snow. The man, unharmed, quickly rose and brushed himself off. "You crazy mule. . ." his voice trailed off suddenly as he saw something in the snow. It was a body, laying in a heap. He was at first amazed that no horse had trodden upon it in the limited range of visibility, and wondered why Arod had stopped at him. Perhaps frightened, or maybe just wary of the figure. "My lord!" he yelled. The other riders had halted, seeing that their comrade had been dismounted. Éomer rode up quickly.

"What is it? What madness keeps our horse?" he asked.

"My lord, there is something in the snow. I'm afraid its frightened my horse," he said. Éomer and he rushed to the figure. It was a man (or so they thought), clothed lightly and covered in snow. His cloak was soaking up blood whose source was unknown. He was recognized immediately by Éomer as not a man, but an elf. "Legolas!" he shouted, astonished at his return yet oppressed at the manner of it. "Legolas!" he called again, giving him a small shake. After no response, the other rider, Aldar, quickly scanned him.

"He is alive!"blared Aldar in amazement. "He is still alive!"

"Not for long," said Éomer gravely, judging by his pale complexion and his chilled hands and brow. "Let me ride Arod," he said suddenly. "This horse bore Legolas during the war. It is a wonder he stopped at sensing his old rider! The Elves have a way with horses." He strode to Arod and patted his neck in praise. He carefully mounted and positioned Legolas in front of him. Soon, Aldar found a new mount, and Éomer announced to his men, "To Edoras! We make great haste!" he charged into the snow, Arod showing him the true meaning of hurry.

They sped quickly and quietly over the land, and it would have been nearly enjoyable if it weren't for the biting wind and the race for life. Arod's foot falls fell lightly and rapidly over the snow, making it easier for Éomer to keep Legolas from swaying and falling. As they passed swiftly, the wide valley sent a chill down Aldar's spine. The whirling white abyss seemed so intoxicating that it lured him into dangers unknown. Like a venus fly trap, it attracts its prey with sheer beauty, then clamps down mercilessly, sending the victim into the lurking shadows.

Soon, shouts and whoops were heard among the thick ranks. The city was seen in the distance, even through the heavy snow. At last, they passed through the gate, and Éomer rode quickly to the palace.

He dismounted and thudded into the snow. Legolas swayed like a drunken man and fell sideways from the horse, but was caught swiftly by Éomer just before he struck the ground. He was brought quickly to the guest chambers and laid in a warm bed. His body sank into the multitude of blankets, but no expression crossed his face. Éomer found a wound to Legolas' shoulder; a gash had been opened by the jaws of the warg, and blood seeped through his clothes and cloak. After he cleaned and carefully dressed the wound, Éomer sat down on a chair next to the bed. It creaked as he leaned back with a sigh. "He will recover," he said slowly to Gildal. "It is a case of languor in the most extreme, not to mention exposure to the elements for nearly a week without food or water. If that wouldn't bring one to death, an attack surely would. And yet he managed to survive." He shook his head in amazement, and a slight grin appeared, but passed quickly like the golden leaves in autumn. He looked over his shoulder to Legolas, whose breathe came so discretely that it was barely noticeable. He was even more colorless than his usual fair complexion, if that was even possible. His temperature failed to raise, although the blankets promised to warm him.

"Should we send another rider to Gondor?" asked Gildal, "To inform Lord Aragorn,"

"Nay, we can not. The weather will not permit us to leave here for at least another week," said Éomer sullenly. He then bid Gildal to leave for the night, and assumed an understood duty to watch over Legolas t while the winter moon cast a shadow over the bed.

As the hours crawled slowly by, Éomer struggled to keep awake. First, he peered at the paintings and hangings that adorned the wooden walls, but soon lost interest in them, not being able to view their contents in the darkness. As he began to doze off, he quickly jolted up again, forcing himself to stay awake. He began to twiddle his fingers about. Next he quietly tapped the floor with his boot. He began to do anything just to keep him awake. The flame of the candle caught his eye. It flickered and danced, failing to light the room as it once had earlier. It was, to Éomer, a symbol of Legolas' life force; it dimly burned, casting no heat and hardly any light onto the walls of the room. The very temperature of the room seemed to be a threatening evil, trying to stamp out the flame. As he got lost in the flame, sleep played at his eyelids and Éomer began to doze off. Soon, he fell into deep sleep which he had longed for . He became inanimate, like the stones in the foundation of the mountain; no longer a force, but a strong defense.

He startled into life a few hours after dawn. Quickly his glance stole to Legolas, and he called Gildal for assistance. When Gildal arrived, he stood in a state of shock at Éomer's command. "What is it my lord?" he asked. He was out of breath after hurrying to his lord's call. "What is wrong? He hasn't moved," he said again.

"I know," said Éomer deeply. "That is what unsettles me." He and Gildal eyed him suspiciously from a few paces away. They didn't want to approach him, it felt strange being in the presence of an Elf, and a wounded Elf at that. Finally, Gildal spoke.

"He hasn't moved," he began, watching Legolas' chest rise and fall slowly and regularly as he breathed the air of healing. "Should we wake him?" he asked. A resounding censure echoed from Éomer's lips.

"He is still very weak, I think. It is difficult to care for his race; they are so subtle and so tractable. I think we must leave him to rest. He will come around soon enough," said Éomer's friend, a man who had doctored his Uncle before the days of the war. He was a barrel-chested old man, but with plenty of spirit and life under his belt. Along with that came wisdom and knowledge of old lore and medicine. He was clearly an asset to the Kingdom.

"The days are growing dark," said Aragorn. "There was a time of celebration! Of music and dancing and joy, but it too has now passed. It has passed like the moon over the horizon of a new age. A new threat grows. It casts a shadow that veils my kingdom in silence and fills the air with such heavy languor that I can nearly taste it."

"Do not believe this!" cried the fair Arwen. "It is only a shadow of your grief, and you will overcome it. A loss such as this is indeed great, but don't allow it to bring your city to this. So much relish used to dance in the streets and echo from the great walls of your fathers. You have overcome the prophecy and brought life to Gondor!" She became beleaguered at his present state of prowess and strove to enlighten his spirits. But it could not be done, at least not by her, and so she left him in the chambers of the kings.

Éomer received an urgent message later that night. As he was strolling about on the hillside, a page ran to him rapidly and reported to him out of breath: "My lord, the Elf is gone!" he said through a few pants and gasps. After Éomer scowled, half in thought and half in his own torpidness to not keep watch, the messenger took it personally and apologized. "I'm sorry,"

"He can't possibly have gone! Is he walking? He can't go anywhere without a horse through this weather. . ." his voice trailed off as the page looked earnestly at him and suddenly tore back up the hill, Éomer right behind him. They reached the stables and, indeed, a horse was missing; its stall door hung open and creaked back and forth in the arctic wind flowing through the stable. Éomer looked into the snow with disbelief. He then ran to the room in which Legolas had slept and found a small parchment on the soft bed. In undeniable certainty, it was his writing; the fine print flowed across the page:

I am eternally in your debt

Thank you for your care and guardianship. I will ever strive to repay you.

I would leave something in return to this debt, but I have naught to give.

"He has gone," said Éomer at last. "I pray he makes it through the weather."

Aragorn shouted from inside the sheltered walls of Minas Tirith. "Open the gates!" he cried. He was surprised to see yet another lone rider come so far through the storm. He watched from a distance as the man strode in on his horse. Aragorn suddenly realized that this man was not one of Rohan's riders. He eyed the man carefully as he dismounted. He stood tall at first, but then slumped, and Aragorn noticed that as he walked, he had a slight limp to his step. The man faltered up the many levels of the city, occasionally halting to rest like a winded old man after a reckless climb. At last, the hooded figure came to a guard outside of Aragorn's domain. Aragorn watched as the guard of the Citadel trotted in from the snow.

"My lord," he said bowing. "This man wishes to speak with you. He would not tell me on what matter, but only that his name is Legolas," the guard said, oblivious of the loss of Aragorn's ally and trusted friend. The very mention of the name burned Aragorn like a brand straight from the ashes. Angered, Aragorn walked around the doors and went through the side, coming out behind the cloaked visitor. He crept slowly, like a panther stalking its weakened prey. His sword flashed and he held it at the stranger's back. The man, unwilling to fight or not knowing of Aragorn's presence, made no move. Deciding not yet to bring death upon this deceitful man, Aragorn swung his sword around and struck the man on the back of the head with the heavy handle. A cry rang out shortly as the stranger truckled. He then turned his hooded face to Aragorn, but was again struck by the metal. Aragorn was attempting to release fury in a kingly manner. He pursed his lips in anger, and then bit them as if it would prevent his mouth from telling himself to hit the man again. Suddenly, the stranger rose with new strength, and Aragorn wielded his mighty Anduril, Flame of the West. The man blocked blow after blow, sporadically receiving a few. Aragorn was fully enraged and flung his sword to the ground. The guard watched as snow and fists and blind rage flew through the courtyard. At last, after taking a final blow from Aragorn, the man shrunk and turned his back to him. He winced in pain and exhaustedly choked. He then rose steadily and slowly after yielding to quite a lambasting from Aragorn, and once again, Aragorn had his sword raised.

"Who are you?" he asked in a bitterly invective tone. "Turn, show yourself, you hector!" The man turned slowly and seemed to creak. As he was nearly turned fully around, he uttered Aragorn's name softly and abruptly collapsed into Aragorn's arms, his hood thrown over, revealing his identity. Aragorn sat into the snow, holding his weakened friend Legolas above the cold, snow-laden ground. He gently laid Legolas down. Legolas looked up at him and flashed his bright eyes. His face remained expressionless, and, Aragorn thought, seemed unpredictable like the rains of spring: light and friendly, but potentially dangerous. Legolas panted and gasped for breath, thoroughly drained of energy. Without a single word passing from either of their lips, Aragorn helped Legolas to his feet and assisted him out of the court yard and into a great hall that echoed the voices of the Kings of Old. Legolas limped over to the notable table stretching nearly a quarter of the length of the hall. He stooped onto it, shifting his weight from his injured leg to the other.

Aragorn busied himself by making some sort of drink which was known to heal those who suffer. He looked with a gesture of joy to Legolas, and also of sympathy. He fumbled through his mind, searching for the right words. "I will tell my guards to stable your horse for the night," said Aragorn quickly. Legolas nodded in approval. He hadn't yet recovered his voice. After only a few minutes, Aragorn put an arm over Legolas. "I am sorry, but you'll have to hobble a bit further. We can go to my quarters just down the hall. It will be more confidential, a better place to speak." Aragorn said apologetically. They passed slowly through the great white hall and passed through grand wooden doors and into yet another vast room in the center of which Aragorn's throne sat, empty as one who has not passed wine through the lips in many days. Legolas seated himself t a much smaller and strangely consoling table. Aragorn took a seat directly across from Legolas and nearly spilled the drink he prepared; his hands quivered with the new found fervor for his friend. After Legolas had begun to sip his drink with much gratitude, Aragorn began conversation. His eyes grew wide and Legolas saw lassitude. "Why did you abandon your fate? How did you make it here through this weather?" Never before had Legolas heard Aragorn's voice, the voice of a mighty king and strong warrior, quaver and seem so weak. He gathered up strength to respond.

"I can hear the fear in your voice." he said slowly. "What has happened?" His voice was hushed.

"You are alive! For the longest time I though you were dead. Lost forever." To Aragorn's surprise, and even to his own, Legolas laughed. It felt good to finally laugh after doom has passed.

"Dead?" he asked, the word falling heavily out from his lips as a slight grin cut across his wind-burned cheeks. "Why?"

"I received news first from Valinor, and also from Éomer. They brought me these," he said. For a moment, he disappeared from the table, reaching underneath, but came back again holding a parcel. He handed it to Legolas, who took it out and cried aloud with grief.

"My bow," he said ruefully, running its fingers along the once mighty weapon, now only shards of smooth, worn wood. "A gift from the fair Lady Galadriel." he paused, "I don't suppose I'll find much use of it now." He rummaged through the package some more and pulled out his brooch. He fingered it for a moment. He then set it gently on the table, along with the remains of his bow.

"How did it come to this?" asked Aragorn, picking up the splintered bow, wishing somehow he cold mend it. "Your arrival here in this present state arises questions."

"I was attacked by wargs, but I do not recall much of that, except that it tore my arm. I needed to reach you, and decided not to stop. The cold set in, and my arms and legs throbbed. I kept pushing farther until a sudden darkness took me. Lord Éomer and his riders found me, much thanks to Arod, and took me to Edoras, where they carried me into the palace and watched over me. They tended my wounds and kept me warm. I was unable to thank them in person; I woke for the first time in the palace and was in a hurry to find you."

"Your arm is deeply cut. Let me tend to it," said Aragorn, rising from his seat. But Legolas put his hand up in protest, and so Aragorn sat again. "At least allow me to bandage it after our meal," he said. Legolas agreed. There was a long silence, and Aragorn wished Legolas to tell him of all his tales in getting here, but he knew that he could ask no more of his loyal friend, especially after a trying journey such as his. The silence continued for a few brief moments. Legolas looked up at Aragorn while drinking the warm, soothing draught Aragorn made. Aragorn returned the glance, and they both stared at each other blankly. Finally, Legolas smiled. Aragorn hadn't seen this come across his face since the day they met in Rivendell. He hadn't seen him smile since before the journey that almost cost their lives.

"There is much to learn about your arrival here," said Aragorn. Legolas nodded. At this point, he was not one to perorate.

"There is indeed," he said through another sip. "Shall I tell you?" His inquisitive and noble yet somehow raffish tone returned, making the conversation seem more normal.

"Of course!" said Aragorn, rising from the table. "That is, if you are willing,"

"Always," said Legolas, doing likewise. As he turned to walk, he stumbled and fell onto the table. The cups and vase fell in a loud clatter. His arms quivered as he lifted himself pendulously from the table, gritting his teeth and tightly closing his eyes in pain and embarrassment. His cheeks flushed a bit, giving Legolas some color on his pale face, making him seem less peaked. Whether from clumsiness or weariness (Aragorn guessed the latter), Legolas couldn't walk properly. Aragorn helped him to his feet and smiled gently, which was in much contrast to the weathered, invective face of stone he had acquired during the past few years.

"Come and rest now. You have come a long way and have endured a taxing excursion," said Aragorn, leading Legolas into a bedroom. The candle beside the bed seemed to float menacingly in the darkness. It failed to fully light the room, and gave of a rather eerie glow. As he sat on the bed, Legolas spoke.

"Forgive me," he began. "I am so weary that I must rest, but there is much to speak of."

"There is naught to forgive," said Aragorn sincerely. "Sleep in peace tonight; this city is safe." Aragorn quickly bade Legolas good-night and left him to have some much needed rest.