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-Three: Sweet Warrior

The Land of the Sang-age

"I couldn't believe it was true."

Aragorn's head shot up at the Sang-age King, who was standing by the door of the quiet room into which the body of Legolas of Mirkwood was moved. It was the room furthest from any noisy populated place, most quiet. So it was that it was granted for their use.

The elf was lying on the bed, body bare beneath a clean white blanket. He's been washed from head to toe, his hair rinsed. There was not a speck of dirt or sand on him, no speck of blood. His wounds and cuts were sewn by the best craftswomen's hands, such that the skin did not even seem torn, if one was not looking closely. The offensive arrowhead had been removed from his body, the tip that had made a home of the edges of his heart was in Aragorn's hands, at the moment.

The elf was beautiful in death too, there was little doubting that. But the world was missing out on the fire of his eyes, the character of his face. His body was a beautiful shell, but it held nothing inside, anymore.

Aragorn ran his hands wearily over his face, wiping at his tears under the guise of fighting off his tiredness. "I… I wrote his father. I promised him I'd bring Legolas home."

"As is fitting," Nathaniel said as he entered the room. On one hand, he was carrying a sizeable jug, the contents of which was filling the space with a gentle, flowery smell. "He did not like us much. He shouldn't have to be laid to rest here."

"Except I do not know how," Aragorn said softly, "The travel will be long and slow. He will… I mean the corpse… it will not hold up very well."

"No, it won't," agreed Nathaniel, "In travel it will certainly dry, discolor and shrivel-"

Aragorn tossed him a warning look, cutting off the morbid description. No, he did not want to think about that. "I was contemplating burning him, and then giving his ashes to his father. But Thranduil would want to see his face, I think. Hold his hands…"

Nathaniel laid the jug down on the ground, and stood next to Legolas' bed. He stared at the dead prince's face, but spoke to Aragorn.

"The last thing I said to him," said Nathaniel, "was that I did not find myself honored crossing blades with such a foe." He shifted his weight, grunted as he added, "A much-deserved comment at the time, I'm afraid. But one that I regret saying now."

Aragorn watched attentively as Nathaniel lifted the jug of flower-oil and poured its contents into a bowl that sat on a table next to the elf's bed. He dipped his hands into them, before setting aside the blanket that covered the elf's body a little, to pick up the prince's hands. The body was just beginning to stiffen.

"The Easterlings have long traveled far away from our homes to wage war," he said, as he massaged Legolas' left hand with the oil, digging against the skin, pressing, caressing. "Often in our rush, we burn the bodies of our dead. But we've lost many kings and princes in these battles too, and we always made time to bring them home, to journey back to our lands with their bodies. It was a matter of pride. If we cannot do this even for our nobility, for the best of us, what do we stand for?"

He let go Legolas' hand, and dipped his own into more of the oil, before proceeding up from the elf's wrist to his forearm, doing the same, hypnotic massage of working the oil into the skin, as he continued with his story.

"We learned how to travel far bearing our dead," said Nathaniel, "The bodies bore the sun and bore the dry air. Long enough to get home in a state that allows those who loved them to see a face they could still recognize, holds hands that are warm, and familiar."

Nathaniel stopped working on the elf's forearm and picked up Legolas' hand again, raising it for Aragorn to see. He folded the hand at the wrist, squeezed at the fingers.

"See how soft?" Nathaniel whispered, "See how real? And look how the oil lends gold and glow to his skin. It is not flat, not dull. It is almost as if he was simply sleeping."

Aragorn's eyes watered at the sight, marveled at Nathaniel's sharing of this precious liquid, relieved that he could present to Thranduil a fair remnant of his fallen, beloved son.

"Why?" he asked the King of the Sang-age, Why gift us with this?

"I was unable to do this for my own son," Nathaniel replied distractedly, as he dipped his hands in the oil again, moving his way up to Legolas' arm and shoulder, "Strange, that I should do it for his murderer. I find I may never be able to forgive Legolas for killing Nicolo. I am a father, we are simply made that way. I could have ended with that. But I choose to see things another way also.

"You see," Nathaniel continued, "It is very hard to give up one's life. Harder especially to give it up for strangers. But I know that it is doubly difficult to give up your life for people you actually despise. He hated us, and yet he bled for us. This is the least I can do, I believe."

He touched the fallen prince's face reverently. "I do not know how you did it, sweet warrior," he said softly, "But you found it in yourself to bleed for us. I can believe now that perhaps we've been brothers all this while after all."

Nathaniel pulled his hand away, and he looked to Aragorn with burning eyes. "This was Nicolo's room, you know. There are no ghosts here." He smiled at the Gondorian King, "I've shown you how to do it. I will leave you now."

Eryn Lasgalen
A messenger came with a piece of parchment, and midway through reading it the King urgently asked to be left alone. And so he was alone in his wide, empty court, when said parchment was crumpled in his fist and his other hand shot up to his mouth, covering it as it opened not of his will, letting out a wail that though its sound was muffled, the force of its brokenness shook the room.

He fell to his knees, rocking himself, disbelieving.

Your son is dead.

He died honorably, as a warrior.

The tone had at first been cold, colorless. It did no justice to his son, the spitfire, to him he was the light of the earth. The letter was from Elessar.

I am almost glad we are in the East, rather than the West, the letter went on. The writer was changing his tone, as if he too realized that his flat words were an injustice. As if he realized that he could risk the pain of better words from deeper memories, if it meant painting a more justified, truthful portrait.

In the west, his eyes share the color of the skies and the scent of his hair reminds me of how the trees smell. Reminders of him are readily accessible already, without earth and sky having to tease me that he could just be around the corner. Because he's left us. Because he is lost to us, and really, the gods must soon know that the teasing is unkind.

I cannot imagine your loss, or the pain of your heart. I've only known and loved him for all his wonder and magic. But you actually helped make him. You brought him to this Earth. I should imagine the hurt is acute. I cannot begin to fathom it, when mine is harsh enough.

I will bring him home to you. Until then, my lord. The gods be with you.

Tears streamed from Thranduil's eyes. They fell like a flood, thoughtless, continuous. Destructive. He threw the letter aside. And then from the darker corners of his hall, from the periphery of his vision, he noticed wide eyes peering at him intently.

"Out of the shadows, you insolent boy," he growled, recognizing the voyeur as the Easterling boy, their young houseguest. He rose to his feet, struggled to regain his calm.

The child did as he was told, and stood before the King, unabashedly watching his face, knowing what it all meant. His mother's cried that way, many of his people's cried that way too. Even elves cried, and even elven kings. Why was everybody fighting? They were all the same!

"I'm sorry," Dorjan told him, sounding a bit confused. Sorry for the intrusion? Sorry for the loss? He did not clarify, and just scampered to pick up the letter Thranduil had thrown away, handing it back to him. "You may want it later."

The King was irritated at the intrusion. But when he stared the boy down he found only honesty, and earnest desire to help.

Want it later, he thought bitterly, Who would want to reread such a letter, to remember such a time…?

"Mama always said," said Dorjan, "To remember what it felt to fall, so I'd know how hard it was and how strong I'd been. She said… she said that's what scars are for, even if they're not very pretty."

"You are too young," Thranduil snapped at the boy, "You are not supposed to know these things." But he folded the letter neatly, and placed it in his tunic pocket, next to his heart.

Dolores,

The Northeast

Elsewhere, another letter made its way into someone's pocket. This too, had the characteristic crumple of one's fingers and fist at the corners, the reflexive action to a tremendous loss.

With shaking hands, Elrohir folded the paper carefully, before keeping it. He took a deep breath, and another, and another. He wondered how many times Estel had to write that thrice-damned letter. He'd have sent word to Eowyn and Faramir. Up to Arwen. And then to the elves of Ithilien. And Lorien. To the hobbits, perhaps, miscellaneous dignitaries. The death of a royal was still the death of a royal. And then there was a letter to Thranduil too. How many times did Estel write it? How many times did he break his own heart, to say Legolas is dead over and over, write it, put it on paper, make it real.

Elrohir ran his hands over his face, raking at his hair. Estel could have told him he lost a brother. Legolas was a dear, old friend.

And it's sad because he was very handsome too, he tried to kid himself, except when one spoke of the deceased elf's looks, one ultimately remembered it, called it up to mind. And when that happened, more than the beauty there had been, ironically life. Intensity, humor, intelligence, caring.

Tears sprang to his eyes, such that Nadina's figure was blurred when she stepped forward and walked toward him. She embraced him tightly, saying, "I heard."

He laughed mirthlessly, but returned her embrace with equal ferocity, and much more need. You heard, he thought miserably, What a bloody understatement.

To be continued…