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.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

The Sang-age Tribe: a tribe name created from Latin roots which means 'belong to blood.' They are a creation of the author and is supposed to be one of the multitude of Easterling tribes, not particularly powerful but also influential. Their land is situated east of Rohan.

The Doloresi: another tribe of author-imagined Easterlings, whose land is situated east of Eryn Lasgalen.

King Nathaniel: the King of the Sang-age tribe.

Prince Nicolo: Heir of Nathaniel, and a renown and vicious warrior.

King Danielli: the king of the Doloresi, and a dear friend and ally to Nicolo.

Princess Nadina: Nathaniel's daughter, Nicolo's sister, and Danielli's wife.

Rebekah: Nadina's personal maid.

Dorjan: Nadina and Danielli's son.

Lilian: Legolas' murdered betrothed. An elf from Lothlorien.

Mikael: Legolas' personal guard.

Adriano: a young Easterling aide and valet.

Jonah: an old Easterling warrior.

Tadeo: an old Gondorian warrior

Morgetti: Nathaniel's ward turned rebel leader who wants to take the kingdom of the Sang-age from Nathaniel.

Danesh: a Dolores captain

Hector: a Sang-age Captain

PART FOUR: Endings

Chapter Twenty-two: The Rest of My Life

The Land of the Sang-age

Many of the mercenaries deserted Morgetti after it was made clear that the defenses couldn't be broken even if every single one of them died. They'd fight and kill for high pay and great rewards, being mercenaries. But what good could gold do the dead, save that they can be buried in a casket studded with it? And then in strange karmic retribution, they imagined that brigands like they themselves once were will only steal said casket from their graves and leave their bodies out in the sand. And so the mercenaries left, until naught but the original fifty or so of Morgetti's soldiers remained.

This was the scene that greeted the joint forces of Elessar and his western and eastern allies, a scene of half-hearted battles and the near-closing of a ferocious, hideously one-sided battle. Nathaniel's palace looked perfectly intact, and the combat was more close-contact in the city around it.

"My lord!" an elven soldier yelled at Aragorn as he downed an Easterling and noted the arrival of the King of Gondor, "They need you at the palace! The barricade is heavy, and the archers are poised at the ready against any intruders. But they will know to recognize you and usher you in with haste!"

Aragorn's brows furrowed in thought, before he decided that perhaps Legolas made the order to ensure his safe arrival, and to share in counsel over the progression of the battle.

"Prince Legolas is there?" Aragorn asked, just before the elf turned to fight another of Morgetti's rebels.

"Yes, my lord," replied the elf, "Hurry."

Aragorn broke from the party he arrived with, felling a rebel or two that got in his way. Eomer, Nathaniel and Elladan behind him did the same. But unlike them, he did not stay for the battles, did not actively seek foes out. He was primarily needed at the palace, after all, and since all on the ground seemed well under control, that was where he headed.

The gates opened for him at once, and almost shut at the tail of his horse. They were taking no chances in letting any of the rebels in, and it was easy enough to see why: the palace was filled with women and children who've been displaced from their homes for their own protection.

Aragorn jumped from his horse, tossed his reins to a young steward before asking where Legolas was.

Unlearned in Westron, the boy's eyes just widened anxiously, and gestured vaguely for the low walls around the palace. Nodding his thanks, the King jogged toward said direction, and asked for Legolas again the very moment he ran into another elven soldier.

'You will find him in the healing wing we improvised near the east wall,' the elf told him, grasping his arm and saying earnestly, making Aragorn's blood freeze, 'It is good that you are here, my lord. It is good that you are here.'

Aragorn's eyes bore into the elven soldier's. The battle was almost won, victory was certainly only moments away, that was sure enough. That meant his presence was not wanted expressly for his military aid. "What do you mean?" he asked the soldier.

'The prince, sir,' replied the soldier, suddenly hesitant, 'I'm afraid… Did they not tell you? He took terrible hurts.'

"Let me go," he moaned brusquely, breathlessly, writhing under the desperate grasp of those who held him to the ground, "Let me go…"

The prince, even with considerable injury, was giving the healers and the soldiers who kept him from moving quite the time of trying to hold him down. But his unabashedly royal tone remained unheeded, for it was plain to see that his cries were made up not just of his frustration over being unable to fight and lead, but also because of a lot of pain. His chest rose and fell in giant, heaving breaths, and bright red blood bubbled up in his mouth with his coughing. It was a marvel that his struggles were as strong as they were, but then again the healers and soldiers did not mind the extra hardship of dealing with him as long as it meant that their beloved prince was still very much fighting the fatal injuries he had taken.

"Hold him down," the head elven healer, ordered, "The tip broke when the arrow was drawn. We must find it."

Aragorn watched them a pace away, at the mouth of the door leading up to the improvised healing wing. He jogged here, upon word of Legolas' hurts. His hands were needed desperately, and he needed just as much to be here. But when he saw the elf writhing on a pallet, his feet seemed frozen, unable to move. He saw the bright red blood, knew it for its richness, knew full well it had no rights being coughed up in such copious amounts like that. And then blood of a bolder, near-black color was gushing out of his stomach too, and the precious liquid flowed from his body so boldly, it's as if it could never run out. The red stuff was all over the ground, such that even his sandy boots, here at the outskirts of the room, was not spared.

His healer's heart knew at once that he'd come too late.

And then his lover's heart bid him stand still, perhaps time wouldn't move, perhaps the elf can stay a while longer than those wounds gave him any right to.

The elven healer grabbed a surgical knife, and the injured prince gasped and tensed when the healer used it to make a wider cut of the hole on his chest, where the arrow had been. The healer then urged a young boy forward with a candle, and he pried the wound open to seek the offensive, misplaced tip of the arrow that had made a home of his prince's body. And then the healer's white hands went inside the cut in search of the arrowhead.

Legolas cried out involuntarily and his body arched back, making those who held him tighten their grips to keep him still. He coughed, and gasped, and his hurting eyes sought solace in the ceiling, as if he was seeing past it, out to the skies, further out to the stars, further out to the heavens. His anguish was stifling the room.

Breathless, Aragorn stared at the elven prince's pale face, the hair that clung to his cheeks and his forehead because of his sweat and blood. His blue eyes were burning, and his body was tensed and tightly wrought, the fists held at his sides shook with his iron grip.

He is dying, Aragorn thought to himself, and the thought brought tears to his eyes. He glared at the healer hotly. You are hurting him. Stop.

Characteristically, he's always preferred leaning toward hope rather than defeat. If he'd been so enmeshed in healing the elf himself, he wouldn't stop until he found that arrowhead. He'd seek it as if it could solve all the problems in his life. But standing back this way, his eyes and his knowing could no longer drown in the delusions that the elf could be saved. He was a hopeful man, yes. But he was never anyone's fool, and he most certainly hadn't been born blind. Objectively speaking, the elf's life was lost to them the very moment even just one of those two arrows struck.

'I can't get it,' the healer muttered in his native elvish. He dug deeper. Legolas cried out louder. And Aragorn's heart could have stopped right then and there.

There is nothing to do but make him comfortable, he berated the healer in his mind, though he cannot bring himself to say it aloud, make the order, make it real, make it hopeless.

Gimli was in the room, had apparently stood aside to let the healers do their work. The dwarf was the first to see Aragorn standing there with his stricken silver eyes staring at the elven prince.

"Aragorn…" the dwarf said softly, brokenly, making the room quiet. Even the angry, injured elf calmed somewhat, and it was only his hitched breathing that could be heard in the suddenly gnawingly empty space where the bustling sounds of his struggles once had been. Legolas' face turned toward the adan, and his stare was begging Aragorn to come forward and save him.

Save you… Aragorn thought achingly, Save you from the valiant efforts of this fool, you mean? Let you die, is that what you want? Because you have to want that. I cannot give you anything else.

"Elessar," said the healer, taking his bloodied hands away from the prince's torso, "The arrowhead broke of. I cannot find it…"

Aragorn's eyes glanced at him, before drifting back toward Legolas' tearstained, bloodied face. Dare he be the one to say it? Dare he be the one to make it real, and irreversible?

He remembered, how not so long ago it was Legolas who had released him to his fate. They were in Rohan. They just told each other how much they loved one another, and then he had to turn away and say goodbye, to be with someone else.

How funny it was, he remembered thinking, how ridiculous was this situation that one could really die of laughter and hurt. How strange, that one can love so fiercely that one was willing to let go. Let go with an assuring smile, to say, it's all right, go where you must, do what you must. How strange, that you can love me so much you can release me. And that I love you more by your letting go, and ultimately, though we love more, the more we are apart.

I love you enough to let you go too, he thought of Legolas, I love you enough to let you go.

Setting his jaws, he stepped forward and fell to his knees next to the elf's pallet. His haunted silver eyes caught the elf's blue, blue gaze.

"Let me go," Legolas said again, more quietly now, more warily. Limb by limb, his weary body slackened.

"Release him," Aragorn told the healers and soldiers softly, though his gaze never left the elf's, "Please. He will not struggle anymore."

One by one, the hands that held the elf down fell away from his body, and tears welled in his eyes all the more at the sudden freedom. He blinked at them defiantly, caught his breath.

"Elessar?" the healer called to the adan, "The arrowhead…"

Aragorn placated him with a wave of his hand, and leaned over Legolas attentively as the elf spoke, his voice quaking and barely above a whisper now.

"There's a battle," Legolas breathed, shifting and trying to push himself off the ground, "We are needed. My swords…"

Aragorn placed calming but authoritative hands on his shoulders. 'Keep still mellon-nin,' he said in Elvish, 'We've won. They do not need your sword anymore.'

I love you enough to let you go too…

Legolas swallowed, looked around at the faces that hovered over him worriedly, before resting his gaze upon Aragorn's mournful but determined ones.

"Legolas," he said softly, "Your wounds…" Aragorn's hands drifted from Legolas' shoulders down to his bubbling chest wound- the lungs were shot to hell, Aragorn realized angrily, and then over the hole where the darker, richer blood gushed freely from his stomach. He didn't know what to do with them, and he knew far less how to say so.

"The arrows had to come off," the elf explained with a gasp, as the man's probing fingers made the already unbearable wound feel all the more as if it was aflame, "Dear gods, they burn…"

Aragorn's brows furrowed. He rubbed a hand over his face, let it rest over his mouth, where all the things he couldn't say were helplessly lodged.

"I need," the King stammered, struggling. He was in deep now, felt his objectivity slipping, finding himself in the desperate, blinded position from which he had relieved the earlier healer.

He might still live, he began to tell himself.

Gods, he's hurting so much…

I want to fight this, he thought desperately, I have to know I fought this to the very end. But he will only suffer needlessly, all for my selfish fears of regretting that I stood by and did nothing…

'You need nothing,' Legolas said softly, watching the adan's stricken face, 'Keep still, mellon-nin. I am lost. I do not need your healing hands anymore.'

I love you enough to let you go…

Aragorn took a deep, shaky breath and blinked at the tears that sprung to his eyes. Exhaling shakily, Aragorn turned to the other occupants of the room. "Please. I beg you leave us."

Gimli watched the others walk away around him, knowing he was exempt from the request. Still, with tears streaming down his face, he knelt beside the elf. The dwarf opened his mouth, hesitated, seemed unable to say anything. He said nothing, and just gripped the elf's hands tightly, before releasing them with a gentle pat.

"I will miss our journeys together," Legolas told him weakly, hot tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. The dwarf gulped and nodded, rising to his feet and turning toward Aragorn.

"I believe," he said softly to the man just before he walked out of the room, "That the best of the goodbyes are yours by right to make."

This next time that I give you up will be the very last time…

"What are you thinking about?" Legolas murmured, watching his pensive face.

"I'm thinking up to the last time we spoke," Aragorn replied softly, "And I'm wondering what rights Gimli would think I have, after… after everything."

After Arwen, it went unsaid, After I left you, and then asked you to marry an Easterling.

Legolas knew precisely what he meant, stared at him for a long moment before urging the man forward. "I don't have much time for regrets, Aragorn. We are here, that is all that I can look to." His eyes bore deep into the man's. "Do you still love me?"

"I do," Aragorn replied earnestly, "I expect I always will."

The elf smiled, andthe adan scooted over closer, gently lifting him up and encasing him in his arms, wary of his wounds. Legolas sighed against him, clutching Aragorn's tunic tightly as he rested his cheek against the man's chest.

I do not know… I do not know what I should hate more, the elf had said to him not too long ago, This body that keeps me from you, or this heart that pulls me toward you. I'm tearing myself apart. I do not know what to hate more.

Aragorn mused that the statement is as true for a man loving another man as it was for an adan who loved an elf, just as it is true for a man who loved a dying friend. Once again, their bodies were parting them, one to walk the Earth and one to leave it. And yet the heart does not find what it loves easy to forget, longing for something that will no longer be there.

"I do not know what I should hate more…" he said to the elf softly, making Legolas chuckle against him weakly.

"You can just love me," the elf said.

"I know how it goes," Aragorn smiled through his tears, clutching Legolas tighter and smelling the familiar woodsiness of his golden hair. "You are breaking another promise to me. You said you'd stay."

"One promise, two, three…" Legolas replied wearily, "You're special. I've never broken my word," he coughed, "To anyone else."

"I suppose I should feel particularly loved," said the adan.

"I… suppose," conceded the elf.

Aragorn held him quietly for a long moment. He was going to miss Legolas' voice. He was going to miss his smile and his burning, burning eyes. He was going to miss how safe he felt with the elf nearby. He didn't have too see him, or scent him, or hear him. The feeling that he was there was enough a lot of the time too.

"We're all alone," said Aragorn softly,

"We can be anyone we want to be," Legolas whispered.

"What am I going to do without you…?" Aragorn asked him.

"You've survived years before me," Legolas coughed as he chuckled, "And years after me. It is immaterial. You can just imagine I moved countries."

"You jest," berated Aragorn, "But you know it is very different."

"You look too far away," replied Legolas, smiling as he echoed what the adan told him some time ago, "You look so much ahead that you stumble over the things that are right in front of you. We stand upon a cliff. Life can end tomorrow. But I love you, and I am with you. I love you. And we are together."

The elf was joyful when Aragorn said that to him in Edoras. Legolas had smiled and teasingly said, Short-sighted. But effective. Aragorn could not find it in himself to mimic that joy. Tears streamed from his eyes, down to the elf's cheek.

"Aragorn," breathed the elf, smiling, "No more tears."

"Too much to ask for," the adan retorted.

"I love you and I am with you," Legolas said again, his voice drifting, "And when I leave, you can love Arwen and be with her. But for now… for now.," his breath caught, and each one became more laborious than the next. His hand clutched at the adan tighter.

"For now," he struggled, "At last I can say that I have you to myself, for the rest of my life."

The man could not find anymore words. He imagined he'd regret it, later. Later, he can imagine he'd think of a lot of things to say when the elf was dead, when there was no one to hear. But he thought perhaps nothing else needed to be said anyway. For the first time in a long time things between them was crystal clear. The past, the present, the future…

They held each other thus. They were still for awhile, even when the world moved. Sunsets and winds and breezes, and footsteps that hesitated outside the door, considering intrusion and changing their minds. And there too was laughter and victory, and then tears at the losses. Yes, for awhile, as long as the elf in his arms breathed, the world was still. But tears… tears still fell to the ground too, defying them. And blood flowed. And life still ebbed, somehow, escaping all their desires to enslave the moments left to them.

And then his breaths ceased, and his grip loosened, and his hands fell to his sides, empty hands, hands as empty as his absent eyes.

What was the last thing you said to me…, Eomer struggled to remember of his deceased elven friend.

You want me out of your way, Eomer, the King of Rohan realized, finding some grim amusement over the irony.

Not this far out of the way, Legolas, he berated the elf's memory, shaking his head at himself. He sat with his allies in a banquet room in Nathaniel's hall, making good friends with the local brew. It was not nearly as potent as his beloved Rohan fare, but it was intoxicating enough. He was initially tempted to challenge the dwarf to a contest, but then it would have brought on a host of presently painful and unwelcome memories.

The Sang-agen were tactful enough not to have a large celebration over the victory of their city. As a matter of fact, most of them were garbed in mourning black, and once in awhile they'd bow and murmur at the westerners with their strange language, sounding apologetic and sincere. Eomer supposed that everyone's quite surprised and pained over the death of the elven prince in some way, both the friends who loved him and the strangers who were in awe of him, these strangers he died to protect.

"What will become of this treaty now, you think?" Elladan of Rivendell asked from beside him, over dinner.

"Everyone's already signed," said Eomer, "The bind was supposed to be marriage, but now I believe everyone's seen it is irrational to disregard everything just because the groom is dead, after all that we've been through together. The purpose of the marriage was to ensure a bond. And a bond we've already achieved… united for the first time, dying for each other. I think in the long-run, the Easterners appreciate more that Legolas died for them, than if he just married one of their most beautiful women and lorded over their lands. It is the generosity of it that made the best gesture, I think. I have a feeling they know that. For now, the signatures will hold, without a wedding."

"I think so too," said Elladan, looking down at his nth emptied pint of ale. It wasn't a good habbit, he knew, but he's traveled with men a lot, it wasn't his fault he found a liking for good brew.

"Not bad, eh?" Eomer asked.

"Oh no," agreed Haldir, who also shared their quiet table. The absence of Elessar was potent, but they made do well enough with the company afforded them. Gimli, Adriano, Jonah and Mikael were also in their table.

"When are we leaving again?" Gimli asked blearily, already mostly drunk.

"Tomorrow morning," replied Elladan, realizing it belatedly. Most of them were going to be asleep on the bloody road, that's for certain-sure.

"I heard rumors Morgetti was caught alive," Adriano mumbled, his tolerance of the brew lowest of all the hardy drinkers there, "When his army was failing, he tried to kill himself, and even that failed! Poor, pathetic man. Can do no right…"

Mikael muttered something in his language, an ancient, dirty curse that made Elladan's and Haldir's eyes widen in shock.

"He should have done the deed sooner," the old soldier said in Westron, "Saved us all the trouble and all the loss. If he wanted to succeed, he could have asked for my aid."

"And mine," grumbled the dwarf.

They fell silent again. The table was quiet, but the anger and the confusion here was true and undeniable too.

"This is all my fault," Adriano said.

"Place no blame where it is undeserved," advised Haldir mildly.

"I just desperately had to have my hands wrapped around that bastard's neck," Adriano said.

"Which bastard?" asked Gimli, "The rebel who killed Tadeo? Morgetti and his foolish rebels? How about the dead elf, for being a deserter when he left us? Many bastards going around, boy, you've only got two hands."

"I can lend him mine," Mikael murmured.

"You seem to be offering aid a lot," Jonah observed, uselessly.

"I'd give my hands for such a cause too," seethed Gimli, "But I get first dibs on Morgetti."

"Have any of you seen him, when he was brought in?" asked Elladan, "I heard that if he's been caught at all, he's being detained, kept from sight, kept from everybody. I guess the powers-that-be want him alive and well for a trial. Didn't want to risk any angry folk from barging in there and slitting his deserving throat."

"I've seen him," Eomer said suddenly, simply.

Heads turned his way. None of them knew this.

"It was one of my soldiers who caught him," Eomer said, "He was presented first to me. I ordered him protected, I ordered him hidden."

"Even from us?" asked Gimli.

"Most especially from you my friend," replied Eomer wistfully, rising to his feet and excusing himself.

Elessar's absence at dinner did not go unnoticed. Eomer figured there were only two places he could possibly be- with the body of the elf, or seeking out the only identifiable murderer of Legolas, which was Morgetti.

The orders he left with his men were very specific. No one gets into that tent, under pain of death. No one, save for himself, or the King of Gondor and Arnor.

"Not even Lord Gimli, sire?" asked one of his soldiers.

"Not even him," Eomer replied.

There was something he had to see, something he had to deal with. Specifically, there was something Aragorn had to deal with. Eomer was not worried about the vocal dwarf- he was more expressive of his grief and anger over the death of Legolas. And as long as such things were not kept so oppressively within oneself, then there was nothing to fear. If Gimli said he'd kill Morgetti, he would. Just as if Adriano said he'd ring the bastard's neck, he would. Who the King of Rohan worried for was Elessar, whose eyes screamed with misery, even as he drowned himself in silence and solitude. Those who do not give voice to such things presented a greater danger of destroying themselves. Just as Legolas once almost did, when he bottled up so much of his rage that it ultimately brought him to kill.

My friend, Eomer thought to Legolas, I was not here to save you. But I believe there is one thing I can do for you…

Eomer walked toward the Rohan camp, just outside the capital. His soldiers saluted him, and he found the guards he tasked with Morgetti's well-being sitting around a fire, having supper. They told him Elessar demanded to see the prisoner just a short while ago.

"We left him alone with Morgetti," said one guard, "And moved away as you ordered us to do, my lord."

"Good," said Eomer, "Excellent work. Have a good meal, gentlemen."

The King of Rohan walked away from the fire, headed for the dimly-lit tent found at the outermost rim of the Rohan camp. He found Aragorn standing by the entrance of the tent, looking bewildered and weary. Elessar looked up at his arrival.

"You did not tell me you found him," said Aragorn darkly, "I had to hear bloody damn rumors."

"I knew you'd find out yourself," Eomer said mildly, nodding toward the tent. "You've been inside?"

"Yes," snapped Aragorn.

"Is he still alive?" Eomer asked, unblinking. Aragorn set his jaws and just growled at Eomer. "So he is," the King of Rohan concluded, "You disappoint me."

"Oh do I?" retorted Aragorn, "Or do you mean to say I've exceeded your expectations, hm?"

"Why are you mad at me?" Eomer asked.

"Because you're dangling the damned Ring of Power in my face," seethed Aragorn, "He killed Legolas with his stupidity, his foolishness. And then you let me in, you order your men to leave me be, he's tied and unarmed, I'm angry and I'm burning for his blood. Why am I mad at you? You're playing these cursed games."

"I've seen Legolas in vengeance," said Eomer, "He and I, we've crossed blades and we've spat out curses at each other over it. He found no healing in hurting others, you know. Neither will you. He found his own way back. I thought I'd give you the opportunity to do the same."

"Much appreciated," Aragorn said darkly, sarcastically. He did not like being a pawn in some game! He hated the feeling of being tested.

"You didn't kill him," Eomer said, "Why?"

Aragorn stared at King of Rohan hotly for a long while, before his eyes simmered down to a weary, lonely gaze.

"Legolas went into those talks with the rebels wanting to save this madman's life," Aragorn said quietly, "I love the elf more than I can hate those he tried to save, those who ultimately killed him. And besides… in Morgetti's eyes, I saw my face. We were both just as angry. But I was not as lost as he. Or at least, not yet- it all depended on whether or not I descended my blade and killed him, paying his life for my satisfaction. But then I decided- he deserved my pity, not my pride. And I needed to know that I could give it, that I could free myself enough to forgive him. Because if I couldn't… then I'd carry his revenge in my revenge. And likely someone somewhere will one day want to come after me. And then where would we all be?"

"Just so," Eomer said softly, satisfied.

To be continued…