Authors' Note: As we promised, the second part of the chapter. Please use the same soundtrack for this, although we aren't quite sure if it's still applicable. We don't really know when the next chapter will be up, but it should be sometime during Christmas, after Trilogy Tuesday however. We really hope everyone enjoys the RotK premier on the 17th.
The Nightrunners
We'll always have Paris- Part II
Felix wandered through a maze of corridors. He vaguely recognized his surroundings as the office levels of Goldenwood Enterprises, but one which was strangely devoid of the bustle that he had come to associate with the powerful technology company. He walked down one silent corridor, seeing nobody, hearing no sound except for the echo of his own footfalls.
He shivered, fighting the urge to call out. But the walls seemed to press in on him, and he finally gave in to the impulse. "Is anybody there? Can anyone hear me?"
The hallway seemed to take his voice and amplify it, until all he could hear was his own voice, echoing and reechoing, distorting itself until it became a low-pitched moan in his ears, coming from all directions at once. Faintly, over the din, he thought he heard somebody screaming.
Sinking to the floor, he clapped his hands over his ears. His own voice, twisted beyond recognition, jabbered at him: "Anybodythereanybodythereanybodythere?"
"Stop it!" he screamed, but this only added to the cacophony, as his own voice screamed right back at him. Leaning against the wall, he drew his knees up to his face and tucked his head in, as if this could shield him from the nightmarish voice.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped. Felix jerked his head up, just in time to see a shadow slither around the corner at the end of the hall. He stood up suddenly, reaching in his boot for his knife. "Damn it, I'm the Ringbearer. I'm the goddamn Ringbearer and I *refuse* to cower from shadows and voices anymore!"
He ran down the hall, pursuing the shadow. He rounded to the corner, only to find an open atrium. He stopped dead, in horror of the scene before him.
It was freezing cold. The skylights far above had shattered, bringing down snow, broken glass and icy biting wind. On top of the snowdrifts, staining them to red slush, were countless sprawled forms. He approached the nearest and carefully rolled him over. It was Haldir, his features distorted in a mask of pain and fear, and his hands frozen into claws.
Felix stumbled away, revulsion rising, and almost tripped over another elf. He gasped when he saw it was Elrond, impossible to mistaken, even though half his face was torn away. Only his eyes gave him away, and they were fixed on some point far above Felix's head. Felix followed the dead elf's gaze, and he froze.
It was Galadriel, hanging from one of the trees in the atrium, which were now twisted and withered. She wore a once-white gown which hung in bloody tatters around her battered body.
Felix tore his gaze away, but not before realizing that the elven queen had been tortured before she died.
Panic flooded him, and he ran, dodging bodies of people he knew, elves and men alike. Here, he saw Alice spread-eagled on the floor, her limbs contorted and rigor mortis setting in. A few feet away Adam lay, his arm outstretched towards her, frozen in a last act of desperation. Here was Legolas, and Gabe, Barry, Mark, Peter, everyone he knew, everyone he loved and cherished...and beyond all of them...
...he slid, stumbling in the bloody snow, dropping to his knees, but there was no mistaking that blond, shaggy hair, and the blue eyes that stared at him, his face locked in a final scream.
Samohsamohsamohsamohsamoh-
Felix cradled Sam's head, heedless of his gore-covered hands. "No, please, nonono..." he murmured, unaware of his own words in the crypt-like silence of the atrium, unaware of the tears that streamed down his face. Sam stiffened suddenly in his arms, and Felix threw himself away, rolling through the slush and coming up in a crouch.
Sam's torso raised itself, stiffly, unaided, and the macabre scene made Felix want to scream. His dead, blank gaze met Felix's, and his face split suddenly in a death's head grin. "Don't cry, lover," he said, but it wasn't his voice, it was Trish's, and it was a horrible parody of his normal compassionate tone. His unnatural grin threatened to split his face in two, and he reached one stiff arm towards Felix.
"Cheer up. Remember, we'll always have Paris."
Felix woke up screaming.
************
Gabe, Mark and Peter were camped out in one of the Elves' comfortably appointed living rooms. There was a blaze roaring in the big fireplace, filling the room with warmth and flickering light. Sam and Felix were absent; the latter had been quiet at dinner, his face drawn and his blue eyes bruised with fatigue. Gabe recalled that Felix's attempt at sleep earlier in the day had brought on another nightmare, one so violent that it had startled Galadriel and some of Goldenwood's more psychically aware denizens. It had taken Sam at his most persuasive, plus a few Valium, to get Felix even within shouting distance of a REM cycle later that night. Adam and Alice had vanished without a trace, but Gabe assumed they had issues of their own to work out. This left two rockers and one ex-dwarf to keep the late-night vigil for news.
Peter lay sprawled in a extremely comfortable leather armchair, his legs swung over one of the arms. Mark was curled like a dog on the rug in front of the fire, his eyes flickering as he dozed. Gabe, however, was unable to relax. He'd sit for a moment, shift position, then stand and pace restlessly around the room before returning to his seat and starting the whole process over again.
This cycle might have been repeated indefinitely, had Peter not rolled his head towards the other man. "Christ, will you sit still? You're making me dizzy."
Gabe huffed, and consciously tried to keep still. This lasted for approximately fifteen seconds before he was on his feet again. "It's not going to happen, hobbit. Sorry."
Peter tipped his head back and let out a groan of exhaustion. "And you guys think *I'm* the hyperactive one."
"It's not that late, you know."
"Jet lag. Jet lag!"
"Peter, we flew *east*. It's earlier here. Besides, you've had three days to get over it, so that's not an excuse anymore."
"No. I've never left New York in my life. You can't expect me to hop across time zones and be perfectly fine. Besides, I've had a busy day."
Gabe winced, inwardly agreeing with the last statement. Had it actually been that morning that they'd been drinking coffee in their little apartment kitchen, playing Strategists and Tacticians of the Great Reborn Fellowship Parisian Campaign?
Gabe knew he was getting tired when he started thinking in capital letters.
This morning seemed like something that had happened last year. Scratch that, it felt like another lifetime. Gabe was exhausted, but buzzing with the adrenaline that comes from riding the edge of reason. Nine hours since Legolas had gone under the knife. Nine hours since arriving at Goldenwood and being carted off to surgery by Elrond and his team of medics, and there had been no word since.
Gabe hadn't been raised particularly religiously, which was irritating later in life when you had something you really needed to beg for. It was easier to address those desperate pleas to a higher power. However, lacking an addressee, for the past nine hours, hell, the past three days, the mantra that had settled around his heart was a simple one; more like a wish than a prayer.
//Don't let him die, don't let him die, don't let him die.//
It had worked for three days. It had kept him functioning and sane while his best friend was dying and he could do nothing. Gabe had decided that if there was a soldier's hell at the end of life, it couldn't hold a candle to this purgatory of waiting.
Mark's eyes flicked open and he sat up as the door swung open. Glorfindel walked in, his golden hair mussed, his face blank and unreadable.
"We've got news."
Gabe was out of his chair in an instant. "What is it?"
The Eldar's face suddenly split into a grin of pure relief. "He's out of surgery. He survived."
Peter let out a whoop that made four elves in the next room jump, and he and Mark did a strange, complicated little victory dance that looked as though it had been choreographed several years ago and practiced exhaustively ever since.
Gabe sat down heavily, just because he couldn't stand anymore. There was no word for the relief- no, he corrected himself, it was closer to absolute fucking *euphoria* that blew through him at Glorfindel's words. He laughed, but that was only because he didn't want to cry.
"When can we see him?" asked Gabe, managing to stand, if a little unsteadily.
The emotion in his voice must have gotten through to the Elf, or maybe it was like Legolas had once said; living forever gives you a long time to become perceptive. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "You can come in for a minute. Just for a moment, just so you can see him. He's still unconscious, so I wouldn't expect a coherent conversation. Then you lot have to get some sleep, and believe me when I say we'll tranquillize you if necessary. Come with me."
Gabe had managed to work up to a brisk stumble by the time he made it to the door, two hobbits close on his heels. In the distance, he could hear cheers, voices raised in jubilation, and it brought a exhausted smile to his face. Nice to know he'd not been the only one spending sleepless nights over a certain Elven Prince.
Glorfindel led them up three levels, and down a sterile corridor that branched off into several small medical suites. They passed a crew of tired Elvish orderlies, who nonetheless smiled at them as they passed. Elrond emerged from one of the side rooms, looking as though he'd been caught halfway through changing. His hair was pulled into a ponytail, and he was dressed in loose green hospital pants. He looked as tired as his orderlies, but he managed the ghost of a smile. "Thranduil certainly raised a stubborn bastard, I'll give him that. But I will tell you, you gentlemen did well in getting him stabilized in Paris as quickly as you could, where we could reach him. If we had been even a day later..." the healer trailed off, and shrugged. "But there are forces that move in this world beyond the comprehension of Men and Elves. We owe you our gratitude, and Legolas owes you his life."
Elrond nodded to one of the hospital rooms. "He's in there. We had to add six titanium vertebrae to his spine, and there was some extremely delicate work involved in reattaching some severed nerves, not to mention the internal injuries. He had four broken ribs, and a broken clavicle, damage to his lungs, liver, and diaphragm, and a lot of internal bleeding. Too much damage for his system to cope with alone, but I must say, he pulled through admirably. We'll be keeping him here overnight, but we anticipate having no trouble moving him to one of the general living rooms in the morning. He'll certainly be more comfortable there, at any rate."
Gabe could only nod blindly, dazed by the rapidity of Elven healing. How the scales of life and death, so evenly balanced only hours ago, could suddenly swing towards life, leaving scars that would heal in a week and any trauma a distant memory.
He moved past Elrond and Glorfindel, through the door and stared down at his friend. The Elves could say what they wanted about recovery, but Legolas looked like death. His skin was frost-pale, and his bare chest was covered with dressings to cover the surgical incisions. Gabe counted four on his front, and knew there were more along his back. An IV tube ran into his arm, dripping a clear fluid that Gabe suspected to be morphine. The heart rate monitor set a constant, comforting tempo that added a sense of surreality to an already unreal scene.
Gabe knew he wasn't thinking clearly, that exhaustion had muddied his thought process past the point where even *he* couldn't understand exactly what he was thinking. Then Legolas's eyes flickered, heavy with pain and drugs, and Gabe was giddily reminded of that moment in all bad horror films when the corpse sits up on the coroner's table and starts strangling people.
And it seemed that Legolas wasn't thinking any more clearly than he was, because his mind seemed stuck thirty thousand years in the past. He mumbled a few Elvish words, then looked straight at Gabe.
"Mellon-nin?" he whispered, barely more than a breath.
"Yeah." he answered. "It's me. You're you. It's all okay."