Author: Mirrordance

Title: Love, War

Summary: The War brought them together, but the peace will tear them apart. How much is a man willing to pay to keep a friendship, and how much is a friend willing to lose for revenge? Slash.

TIMELINE: the story happens about a year or two after Return of the King— the exact year is immaterial really, just as long as certain future events operate as a given: one, peace is yet to be attained with the Eastern tribes of Middle-Earth. Two, Ithilien is already restored and Legolas lords over the elven colony there, just as Gimli is lord of the Glittering Caves. Three, Eomer is already engaged, as is Eowyn and Faramir. Four, that Elrond and Galadriel have already sailed away to Valinor. The fic is generally faithful to the book and the movie with respect to the major events, although some factors about it may be considered as an AU; the irrepressible Haldir, for instance, is very much alive in this piece.

PART TWO: Possibilities

Interlude 4

The TwoTowers: How Do You Know

March 2, 3019

Edoras

They sat on the table of Theoden's Golden Hall, the first real rest for weary legs over the span of days over days of endless running. And still the elf preferred to remain standing.

What a wonder, the dwarf marveled, though he was of course loathe to admit it and kept the observation to himself. They've been running since they started to hunt orc from Parth Galen, when his wounds had sufficiently healed.

The road of their pursuit had only been peppered by too much "Come Gimli's" than he wanted. The elf was always a few paces ahead, would pause and wave him over, as if it was so easy. At the start he thought perhaps he was being mocked. But then it appeared that the elf really was very earnest in his encouragements, false though they sometimes were; how many times had he heard that they were gaining on their quarry, when it sure appeared that there was no longer any trace of the uruk party that had taken Meriadoc and Peregrin from them.

When finally there had been some sign, it had only been too brutal. He remembered thinking he'd rather have had no clue as to where they were, rather than to know for a certainty that they've died.

"The uruks are destroyed," said the exiled man from Rohan, "We slaughtered them during the night."

"But there were two hobbits," Gimli insisted, thinking it couldn't be possible that sprightly Merry and Pippin had been mistaken for foes and killed so ruthlessly, "Did you see two hobbits with them?"

"We left none alive…" the man had said, and Gimli lost all the rest of it. The three hunters had come so close. Maybe if he hadn't been hurt in Parth Galen, the hobbits would have been saved. If he'd been left. If he had died and been cast into the water with Boromir and elf and man went on ahead without rest. If they'd only run faster, without him lagging behind…

"Dead…?" he heard himself whisper.

"I am sorry," said the man, a flash of sympathy crossing his weathered, world-weary face. It was not so hard not to believe him when he said, "Look for your friends, but do no trust a hope. It has forsaken these lands."

But the man from Rohan may have spoken too soon, for fate made good turns too. Rohan was not so far gone just yet. The hobbits turned out to be alive, the wizard they thought they had lost to shadow weeks ago was restored to them, and then here they stood, in the Golden Hall with realchairs! anda warm meal! andale!

It's not so bad, the dwarf reflected, if you don't think about the trouble ahead

Which of course, they didn't have the luxury of not doing. Two Kings slammed their heads against each other as they debated the best course of action for a people long wearied of war. Eomer of Rohan was not the only one tainted by hopelessness. His disheartenment seemed an embodiment of a proud people weathered by death and pain.

King Theoden and Eowyn his niece and the quiet, bedraggled people of Rohan, one in pain immeasurable. Unfortunately but one of a batch of human faces in the Earth that was so threatened by the darkness of Mordor.

"I will not bring further death to my people," Theoden declared.

They were going to flee to the mountains.

Late Afternoon,

The Road to Helm's Deep

She had heavy, lonely eyes that were beautiful even in her sadness. They seemed to cry for a valiant knight's cause.

Legolas had noted it, the way her people rallied around Eowyn of Rohan. The uncle who doted in his calm, gentle way. The women and children who adored her and wished to be like her. The soldiers who would die for her. And then the adan and the dwarf, who paid her special mind and made it their joint mission to make her smile.

The elf personally did not have the luxury of indulging her, though he understood how her loneliness called most others well enough. He rode alongside Theoden at the head of the column most of the time, his senses stretching out to as far as they could to keep the safety of their lengthy road. He could hear her laughter from behind him. It was musical, and endearing. He wondered how her smile looked, but did not have the luxury of looking behind him to check either.

"I feel we are being watched and waited for," he said softly, to the Rohan guards that flanked him left and right. The King of Rohan had lagged some paces behind, caught in conversation with Aragorn.

"Truly, my lord?" asked the one called Hama

"This is our one road to the fortress, am I correct?" the elf murmured.

"Yes, my lord," replied the other, Gamling. "Well, the quickest and surest one, that is."

Legolas let it go for now, though his brow creased in thought. His senses were pricked and bristling, his heart pounding with uncertainty. They were nearing something that awaited them. The ambush instincts were ingrained on him from generations as a warrior. But apparently, these beings who trailed or awaited them were hunters too, and very good ones.

"Slow the party slightly," Legolas murmured to the two men, as he dismounted his horse, handed them the reins, and sprang forward to survey the road ahead of them. In studying the land, he preferred to be on his feet, for the connection to the Earth was closer.

He looked about him and decided he did not like the formation of the land. The ground was uneven, a steeply sloping rock face hovered over them to their left. They were traveling atop a hill as well, and it ended on a crest that looked over lower flatlands, that was bordered on the other side by the slight incline of another hill. The flatlands resembled a kind of wide bowl, bordered by a rock face on one side, hills on two ends, and a sharp cliff that fell down to forever on another side. It would have been perfect for an ambush; their attackers could hide over the rock face, or beyond the other hill, out of sight.

The road to the fortress was to go straight ahead or to go around it, but of course the shortest, straightest route was the one preferred. The elf pondered their options, as Gamling and Hama rode past him for a look as well. Legolas' eyes trailed after them. The two men were experienced scouts too, he understood, but he was feeling uncomfortable over their vulnerability there.

The horses were just as uneasy. Hama's was shifting and rearing on its feet, restless.

"What is it?" Gamling asked, looking around anxiously.

"I'm not sure," replied the man, just as the warg-borne scout of their foes raced down the length of the rock face above Hama and knocking both horse and man to the ground. Hama had barely begun screaming when his life was taken from him by the vicious beast.

Legolas' eyes widened as ran forward, bow and arrow in hand.

"Wargs!" Gamling exclaimed.

Legolas aimed for the warg, and downed it with a release of his arrow. He shot forward just as its fallen rider fell to the ground, screeching in a most unearthly manner in his surprise and to warn his comrades. Legolas heard Gamling riding away to warn the rest of the walkers, as he straddled the warg-riding scout and slit its throat with his knife in a hurried, desperate attempt to silence him at once, to keep him from calling upon his allies.

The warg-rider was in over his head; the moment the elf had downed him, he was very nearly as good as dead. But he made a grab for the small knife he kept at his belt, and streaked it across the elven warrior's side just before he was killed.

Legolas bit back a cry of pain and surprise. Gathering his breath, he pushed at the body and rose to his feet, exclaiming, "A scout!"

He readied his bow and arrows, heading for the relative better view of the hillcrest, hearing the thundering approach of their predators from the other side of the hill, as well as the approach of the riders of Rohan behind him, and the cries of the people and their hurried pace toward an alternate route.

The elf shot at the first figures that rose from the hill and descended to the flats. They did not come at an immediate flurry, but whenever he downed a warg and its rider, more came, and for every one that fell three more seemed to emerge.

He glanced behind him at the approaching Rohan riders. He eyed Gimli at the head, struggling to man a mad-paced Arod. He kept his weapons, and caught the proud horse's reins and swung himself over its back, not even slowing it down. The horse had such spirit, bred by brave warriors and enriched and challenged by its new elven master.

Horses and arms and men clashed boldly with their foes. The first literal clash was brutally hard and dull, and then it sharpened as the animal collision turned to swords and knives on the ground. The dwarf who shared Legolas' steed rode through the first clash and survived by clinging to the elf, whose teeth were clenched at the fingers of his friend dug through his freshly acquired injury. And then the dwarf wanted off! and let go and rose to his feet, raising his axe for the fight ahead.

Legolas first thought the dwarf had fallen, rather than intentionally more or less jumping off the horse. He turned to where the dwarf landed, where he was practically daring a warg to come charge at him. Legolas shot at the warg with his arrow, and rode off as the dwarf cried foul behind him, claiming "That one counts as mine!"

Legolas had made his own just-as-unglamorous dismount some time ago, faced with a formidable foe and an already considerable injury. Still, he noted that once again, he managed to survive this melee on his feet, and for that he was grateful.

Wincing a little, he glanced around him and found that though much diminished, the forces of Rohan had emerged victorious, with many of the survivors either finishing off already downed foes, or darting back and forth checking on comrades fallen.

The elf had his own checks to make, and along his short walk around hjad caught sight of Theoden, and then heard Gimli with all of his war-cries and triumph-cries and generally just making a lot of noise that a dead dwarf couldn't have made.

"Aragorn?" he called out, which made the dwarf and the King of Rohan take equal notice of the palpable absence of the man.

"Aragorn!" Gimli called out as well, more forcefully.

The growing anxiety in the oft-jovial dwarf's voice was giving rise to Legolas' own fears. Surely, the man would have answered by now, unless he was injured or dead. The best case would have been the former of course, though it was grave as well, and Legolas feared greatly over what state he'd ultimately find his friend in.

Oh dear gods, he thought, inanely wondering how he could have heard his mind beneath the thundering of his heart, Aragorn…

He remembered that he hadn't even checked on the adan along the course of the battle, so caught was he in his own struggles and pains, assured by the man's seeming infallibility, his constant presence.

"Aragorn!" he called out again, heading toward the cliffs, unsure why his feet somehow called him there. Where was he now? He whose silver eyes burned with humor, passion, determination, careful thought? Whose calloused hands never ceased from giving? Whose heart laugh and earthy voice was a comfort to all who beheld it? Whom men would have followed to their deaths at the ends of the world? He who was so easy to love and to adore?

I've lost you, he realized, and the sudden emptiness was gnawing and piercing and unforgettable.

"He's dead," the warg-rider had laughed wickedly, coughing in near-death, devoting even the last of his breaths to malice, "He took a little tumble off the cliff."

"You lie!" Legolas exclaimed, taking the uruk by the collar, shaking him. But he was gone, and clutched in his death grip was the pendant of the Evenstar. Its light winked from the gaps of the spindly fingers, and Legolas released it from their darkness and held it reverently.

He strode to the cliff, stiffly, with much fear and hurt. The sensation was familiar, he was not a stranger to loss. But it was not a pain anyone can get accustomed to. The pendant was captured in his own grip now, and he imagined it was still warm with the skin of Aragorn, his sweat and his blood. How intimate it felt, to touch this, something Aragorn bore for years on his neck, near to his heart. He had worn it with fierce pride and fierce love. Legolas felt it, and he never felt closer to the man than he did in that moment, clutching the object of Aragorn's loving and the power of his determinations. It all burned through his skin, though the man was gone.

"Get the wounded on horses," said Theoden, "The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead."

Legolas' head shot toward the King, as if Theoden had blasphemed. But the elf too, understood that the King was doing what needed to be done, had said what it was that Legolas feared so much to say. No one could have survived that fall. Hence, Aragorn was dead. They had to move on. Still, it hurt no less to hear, especially with the pendant clutched in his hand, the staunchest reminder of the man's life reverently ensconced in his fingers.

"Come," Theoden said to him gently, his old eyes wise as he placed a warm hand upon the elf's shoulder.

The elf let the man's hand fall from his shoulder wordlessly, as he looked back down into the raging waters. He felt the deep desire to jump and follow. To search perhaps.

Where do you all go…?

Or maybe to die as well.

Where do we all go without you…?

He did not understand it then, but it sure felt as if the world had ended.

Early Evening,

Helm's Deep

The ride to the keep was long and agonizing. It was partly attributable to the dwarf behind him unknowingly clutching at his untended wounded side. But then again physical pain had always been more or less bearable to him. It was the dwarf's tears that made for a greater burden. The ride was an intimate one, kept as they were in close quarters. Legolas felt every hitch of the dwarf's breath, his failed struggle for containment. The elf pretended not to notice. It was not hard to keep from asking, to keep quiet and stay still. He did not have the heart to lend voice to what had just happened to them.

When Helm's Deep came into immediate view, he felt great and profound relief. It was unlike the relief of the people of Rohan, who saw in its great stone safety and endurance. He was much more shortsighted- he merely saw release from Gimli and his tears.

They rode Arod up through the massive causeway, passed the Outer Wall and entered the Outer Court. There, the crowds thickened to welcome their King and see if their loved ones survived the assault or not. It was difficult to steer the horses, for the crowds made for a throng of anxious people. Legolas dismounted, and absently aided the dwarf. He saw Eowyn of Rohan from the periphery of his vision, and her lonely eyes were once again stricken by the little numbers of men who had returned from the defense of their people. He didn't think that gaze could get any lonelier.

Legolas took Arod by the reins and ushered him away from the people. He did not know where the stables were, but he followed after the other soldiers who were doing the same. He left just as he heard Eowyn inquire of Gimli, "Lord Aragorn?"

"He fell," said the dwarf, his voice thick with emotion.

Legolas blinked at the tears that came unbidden to his eyes, obscuring his vision. It was different, hearing these words from a friend in grief, over hearing them from a villain in all his malicious intent. It sounded truer. And the dwarf's voice… how devoid of hope it sounded.

A page received his horse at the stables, and Legolas patted the beautiful beast's flank in gratitude and assurance. It was the first time he was without a task to do since they rested in Meduseld, and he was feeling misplaced. Especially since the people of Rohan kept throwing him uncertain glances, being the sole elf there. He reflected that perhaps it was the first time many of them had even set his eyes on someone like him.

"Prince Legolas?" a soldier called from behind him. He turned to find it was Gamling. "King Theoden invites you to his chambers. Perhaps you can find more comfortable quarters there."

"He bids me to come?" Legolas asked, finding his voice scratchy and unused. The last thing he had said was an exclamation of disbelief, speaking to a warg-rider who had been instrumental in the death of his friend.

"At your leisure, my lord," replied Gamling, "Hardly an order."

"I…" Legolas hesitated. He suddenly had no idea if he belonged in the King's counsel, without Aragorn there.

"My lord?" Gamling asked, looking at him closely. The man's eyes drifted down to the elf's wounded side and widened slightly. "You do not look all that well…"

"Ah, yes," Legolas breathed, glancing at his wound and wincing. It hurt like blazes, but at least it was going to give him something to do, for the meantime. "If you could point me in the right direction...?"

"The healers have accosted a corner of the inner court," replied the soldier, "I would offer you the services of the King's own physician, but my liege sent her down there as well."

"I did not expect King Theoden to do any less," Legolas said, smiling slightly at the loyal man in reassurance.

"Is there anything special that you need?" asked Gamling, as he began to lead the way toward the healers', "Given your… your constitution?"

"My constitution?" asked Legolas, confused.

"Being an elf, and all," replied Gamling.

"No," answered Legolas, "No, thank you."

Legolas waited patiently for his turn, sitting in a line of quiet, weary men. The healers used their experienced eyes in their triage; those men who were still salvageable with immediate attention were seen to before anyone else. Those who were still standing relatively strong were made to wait, like him. The dying were set aside gently to a corner, pages and young boys sent out around the keep to look for their families, that they could have someone to hold their hands in their passing.

The line of the waiting patients paralleled the line of the men who were waiting to die. Some of the men who were in Legolas' line had spotted comrades and friends amongst the dying, and broke from their valued places to grasp at flailing hands and speak soothing words and murmur prayers for them. Legolas watched, once again feeling out of place and spectacularly unhappy.

The elf was particularly taken by a young boy with his pale face and wide eyes staring right back at him. His fatal injury was hidden beneath a bloody, weathered old coat that someone had generously given up for his warmth. He was too young, too young to be waiting to die. Blood trailed down a corner of his small mouth.

"An angel," he murmured absently, not completely in possession of himself. His mind was fleeting.

Legolas turned to look behind him, but there was no one there, and the boy was staring at him longingly.

"What is it like?" the boy asked him, breath hitching in struggle.

Legolas' brows furrowed. He wanted to pretend he didn't understand. He wanted to ignore the boy's naked longing. He wanted to keep to himself. He did not want to comfort anyone else, he was consumed by his own losses. This boy's tragedy was someone else's. But then he was who he was too. And he scooted over and sat by the boy's head.

None of us should be here, Legolas wanted to say. But then the boy was dying and he must know that quite well by now, much better than anybody. And it wasn't going to be his problem anymore, not after the real angels bear him away.

Legolas closed his eyes. Heaven, he thought, what is it like… Dear child. You will know much sooner than I. And then you can tell me.

"I am no angel, young one," Legolas said to him softly, "I'm sorry. I can only tell you what I've been told of their homes."

The boy just nodded, encouragingly. Almost desperately. If he wasn't so quickly aged by war, Legolas could have seen him as a sprightly youth who could have said, "Tell me, tell me, tell me."

His grasp of the Westron language, though acute, could not possibly encase the vision of a paradise that lay in promise to all souls who passed the Earth and moved toward their ultimate destiny. Speech could not do it justice either, and for all the injustice done to a boy dying so slowly and painfully in a war, Legolas was loathe to deprive him of this last simple request.

And so in his own tongue, in a low voice, he sang of the promises of the gods. These were promises of white-capped waves on a silver shore, and skies so clear they stretched out to forever, alongside a blanket of twinkling stars. The winds were warm and gentle, there was music and laughter, and no one was ever alone.

It was sung to him by his father after his mother died. That was to where she will ultimately go, and it's not so bad. Now he sung it for a stranger, and inadvertently, he supposed he sung it for himself too. For Boromir, and for Aragorn. For all who will follow them, for the ghosts of this very room.

And then the song was over, and he opened his eyes to find the boy had died, had let himself drift away with the fading of that final note. His lips were graced by a smile, his face looked beautiful and young as it should, no longer tainted by war and pain.

Legolas looked up from his face, to find he was being stared at, tearfully and appreciatively. Some amount of fear too, as the backcountry folk wondered about his elven enchantments. But the music had crossed past the barrier of language- it was a shared longing for peace and heaven, going past cultures. It tweaked at the heart.

A stern-faced woman healer broke the trance, and when she moved it felt as if the room began to move again as well. She strode over to the dead boy and checked for his pulse, touching his neck. The healer's hands lingered just so, in gentleness. She said something in the native tongue of Rohan, perhaps it was a prayer or a goodbye.

"He was my younger brother," the healer said to Legolas with an unflinching gaze, "He did not stand a chance. I had to try and save the others. He knew that, but I wish I had been here. Thank you for standing in my stead."

Legolas stared at her, saying nothing. These were people so accustomed to war and loss that the professionalism, how they were so used to it, was downright tragic.

"He joins the rest of our family in the havens of your promises," the healer continued. Her efficient hands had already taken the boy's blanket and threw it over her shoulders, likely for use on someone else. And then she systematically relieved the corpse of its armor and weapons, handing it to a waiting soldier, also for someone else's use. And then she placed a kiss to her brother's forehead, before rising to her feet and giving the elf a long, measuring stare.

"I will see you now," she said, walking for a corner of the space, not looking behind her if the elf was even following.

Legolas glanced around him, as if to make sure no one else needed the doctor's services first. A soldier next to him patted his shoulder and urged him forward encouragingly. He rose to his feet with a wince, and limped after the doctor. It was what long bouts of rest did to wounded soldiers. The more one sat, the harder it was to rise up again.

The healer commandeered a space next to the wall, a relatively private and quiet, uncluttered area. She motioned for the elf to sit down, and Legolas did so without protest, leaning against the wall as he watched the healer prepare his miscellaneous concoctions.

"What is your name?' Legolas inquired.

"Laure," replied the healer distractedly, "Though I cannot see what use such a thing could have for you."

"Your brother's?" asked Legolas.

Laure just glanced at him, said nothing. Legolas did not press the matter. He didn't know what he wanted of the healer. Maybe he wanted… less of the numbness. To feel no grief for the dead was an abomination.

"We do what we can," Laure said suddenly, as if reading his thoughts, "To each his own."

Legolas eyes watered again, reminded of Aragorn once saying to him that sadness came in many forms. In afterthought, the healer had the same hands as the Ranger's- efficient, dirtied to the nails, yet no less noble. She had eyes of the same knowing, all-seeing gaze.

"Help me out," Laure said to the elf, "And rid yourself of the quiver and open your tunic."

The elf did so, and braved the healer's disapproving stare.

"This wound hasn't been touched since it's been inflicted," said Laure with a look of disgust; not over the wound, which looked grievous enough to deserve it, but apparently over its owner's lack of responsibility.

"I haven't had the time," the elf winced as he shifted. The doctor busied with cleaning the area around the wound, and then the wound itself. The elf grit his teeth at the pain, and the doctor was annoyed enough not to bother with being gentle.

"You should always make the time," Laure lectured, "I will try to stem the infection, but you are already well on your way. I can do little to stop it, but if it does happen it likely won't kill you, if you aren't as negligent as you've been. The blade had been dirty, maybe a mild poison, and your inattention only made things worse."

"Should I apologize?" Legolas snapped, and his breath caught when the healer ignored him and probed at the wound, strategizing her course of action. It still bled freely, and though it wasn't lethally deep, it ran long, just over the elf's waist.

The healer reached for a cup of foul-smelling liquid. She shoved it beneath the elf's nose. "Anesthetic."

Legolas shook his head. "I have it on good authority that we might be attacked. I need to be in possession of myself."

"I promise," said the healer, apparently used to such complaints, "It will not keep you from your duties. It will relieve you of the pain, slow you down some, I admit. But you can stay awake and fight if you will it."

Legolas wrinkled his nose and downed the cup in one gulp. It smelled of ale, mixed with something medicinal. It did dull the senses a little, but it was a welcome sort of numbness, not the kind that totally deprived you of yourself. He barely felt the stitches to his side, and time slowed and flowed so much for him that it was over before he knew it. He leaned against the walls heavily.

"Potent stuff, eh?" Laure asked him with a strained smile. "Rest here awhile, master elf. I have duties to attend to."

Laure tucked her dead brother's blanket around the elf's shoulders before she left.

Pre-Dawn Hours

March 3, 3019

The Deep was mostly asleep when he had risen from his corner to seek some food and water.

The elf maneuvered across the crowded healing wing, feeling sore but also refreshed. His side was still smarting, but mostly he was intent on finding nourishment. The lighting was dull, the halls were quiet. The people were either asleep, or relishing in the peace of the night, or keeping silent so as not to disturb those who needed the rest after days of flight, or for those who needed the strength to face the days of fighting yet to come.

His footsteps were light, his balance unmatched as he skipped over arms and legs and heads and random belongings. He disturbed no one, as he searched for the kitchens. He pressed deeper into the fortress than the inner court, right into the Hornburg's heart. Here, the sentries of Theoden guarded at the doors, and only his guests and his closest council were allowed entrance.

Gamling had done well by the King's orders of letting Legolas into the King's quarters at his leisure, and the soldiers at the doors knew at once not to question the business of the elven prince, letting him through without hesitation.

Legolas murmured his thanks, and entered the sparse hall. He knew he was near to his goal when he sighted some wooden tables scattered about the next room, the practical dining hall. He found Gimli manning one set all to himself, sprawled on top of a table that was liberally strewn with empty glasses of ale. Legolas winced at the sight of the dwarf, the dwarf he had left to speak of the loss of Aragorn to the woman whom he guessed had loved him. Hesitantly, he stepped toward the sleeping, drunken figure and put a warm palm over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry my friend," he murmured, "I did not find the voice, nor the courage to have to say those words aloud."

"Who goes there?" he heard a low, disoriented female voice mutter. He whipped around, and found another table being occupied by the formidable Lady of Rohan. Her eyes were dazed, but they were blinking to quick awareness. Her fiery hair was unkempt, and her own table had three pints of empty ale glasses to boast of. He wondered if she was drunk.

"No," Eowyn said, as if she read his mind, as she ran her hands over her head to mat down her spirited hair. "It disarms me and helps me sleep. I was weary, but could not find rest."

He studied her face carefully. It was flushed, in embarrassment and with the lingering effects of liquor. She was not drunk, but she sure had come very close.

"How may I serve you?" she asked him quietly, gathering her skirts about her as she rose to her feet. She did not waver.

"I can find my way," he told her, "You need not bother. I'm sorry to have even disrupted you this much."

She shrugged, but generally ignored his rejection of her help. She waved him forward and led the way to the kitchens. "I'd cook you some fare," she said, "But the dwarf in his drunken rambling had revealed that I am quite awful at it. Rephrased by me more politely, of course. But he might have said it reminded him of the piss of some beast I've never heard of."

Eowyn sat on a wooden bench, watching his deft hands as he made quick and clever use of the pots and the pans. She tilted her head at him in curiosity.

"I've never met an elf before," she said.

He looked up from his work, smiled at her tentatively, "Do not let your experience of me taint your impression of my kin, my lady."

"You jest," she said, "But you know as well as I that you are quite… appreciated, here."

He said nothing, as he waited for the tea to come to a boil. He grabbed a piece of bread and bit on it absently.

"Do you know what is going to happen to us?' she asked him softly, "Our people? Here?"

"No," he shook his head, "I'm sorry. We've long suspected a trap. But there was little else to be done but go here anyway. We should be ready for a massive attack, within the next few days."

Her eyes clouded a little, and he noticed that she wasn't looking at his face when he was speaking. She was looking at the pendant of the Evenstar, which he had wound about his wrist.

"I thought…" she stammered, "I thought there hadn't been a body, recovered. Of Lord Aragorn's, I mean."

He looked down on the charm, and hid it in the folds of his sleeves. "It was found, he was not."

"He'd never have removed it," she continued, "He'd never have removed it for the world, I thought. It was always around his neck. He wore it with such love and such pride-"

He turned his back on her, not wanting to speak of these things. She noted the rebuff, and her words drifted off toward a heavy silence. He felt her eyes on his back.

"I suppose you were very dear friends," she said.

"He was everyone's, so he was no one's," Legolas said, lethally quietly, as he readied his tea. He wondered why he was so mad. "He is very cunning, isn't he? He works his way to your heart, and then he leaves early. Before you get sick of him."

She stared at him, as he pretended to sip at his drink and eat his food imperviously.

"I suppose you loved him," Legolas said, "How well he plays this game."

"I do not know if I loved him," she admitted, "How do you know if you've loved? Is it if you find that he does no wrong, that there is no flaw to his character? Lord Aragorn seems this way. But there are many such great men too, and all they earn at times is loyalty and respect. Is it when you enjoy his company? I enjoyed the company of Lord Aragorn, but I've enjoyed the company of many others, even that of the dwarf. But then they are only endeared to me. Is it all of these things, determined only by time? But it's happened to people in a matter of days, sometimes years, sometimes mere hours, sometimes just in one breath. How does one know?"

Legolas surprised himself by knowing the answer.

Where do we all go without you…? he had thought of Aragorn, upon that unforgettably stabbing realization of his loss.

"Loving truly is easy," he murmured, "It is so deceptively gentle, I do not even find it can be considered a fall, rather than the brush of a hand, or the first rays of the sun that warm your face. It is so easy, it is there without your knowing precisely how. And then it hits you when it is gone, or when it teases you that it will leave you, and then you find that the future is no longer imaginable without someone, for you've set your eyes and the rest of your life around the idea that he will perpetually be there.

"You know you've loved," he continued as she listened intently, "When you realize you've made him an integral part of your future. And then when you reach that future and look back, you've also given him your most memorable pasts. Lovers own your unforgettable past and your foreseeable future. You know you've loved when you effectively see that somehow, you've decided you were incomplete after all."

She peered at him closely.

And wondered who it was he spoke of.

He blinked at her, when he began to wonder as well. And then his brows furrowed and his lips parted in wonder and dread. He realized it was not Lilian's face or her musical laughter that had prompted his answer.

To be continued…