Author's Note - Beware, guys, this one's a tough chapter. Might want to have a box of Kleenex near at hand.

My apologies for how long it took to get this chapter posted, but killing off my very favorite golden archer proved far more difficult than I had imagined possible.

This scene unfolds at Pelennor Fields right as the battle has drawn to an end. The members of the Fellowship that were present at this battle were scattered close to their imminent victory, and Gimli realizes in the chaos of the aftermath that Legolas is no longer beside him...

Before the Dwarf knew what was happening, a unanimous cacophany of cheers erupted from the warriors who fought under Aragorn's capable leadership.

Could it be true? Was the battle truly over?

Gimli was far more exhausted than he would have ever admitted to anyone who had the audacity to ask. He was wearied to his very bones; his muscles were wailing a symphony of protests at his every move; and his axe-arm was positively throbbing.

But it was over now. He found just enough energy to be relieved.

A delighted hush had fallen over the Pelennor Fields, as if everyone was waiting for...what? Another round of cheers? Gimli doubted it. Everyone was getting tired of celebrating already...there could be no doubt that they were as dog-tired as the Dwarf. He caught himself and snorted: these were mere Men! They must be thrice as drained as he!

For his part, he was stricken with a very real sense of foreboding. And Gimli did not trust the moment of respite one bit. It was...too quiet.

After the initial thrill of the end of the war had worn off, those still able to do so began the necessary routine of restoring order to this last battlefield.

Warriors picked through the wreckage of the battle, retrieving lost weapons and removing their dead to be carried into the city for proper burials befitting heroes.

It wasn't nearly as peaceful as it had been moments before. The clanking of armor and weaponry was deafening. Every now and then, a cry of protest would rise up at the discovery of a fallen comrade. The hair-raising moans of the injured and dying were all around him. Gimli wanted to stuff his fingers into his ears, but at least the pregnant lull had lifted.

Gimli's heart stopped at the next sound he was able to distinguish. It was his name, barely rasped out by a voice he would know anywhere.

"Legolas!" he shouted, whirling around and looking in every direction, trying to discern where the voice was coming from. "Legolas! Legolas, speak to me!"

"Gimli..." It was almost inaudible now, and the Dwarf was frustrated by his inability to decide where to turn to find his friend.

Finally, thank the Valar, he spotted the Elf's great bow of Lorien, jutting out from beneath a pile of wood. It seemed that one of Harad's mûmakil had lost its Houdah carriage, which had come crashing down; presumably onto Legolas. Gimli swallowed a lump in his throat, then immediately set to the task of lifting and tossing aside pieces of wood in a frenzied effort to get to his fallen friend. When that proved too slow for his liking, he began using his axe to shovel debris aside. "I'm coming, Legolas! I know you are beneath this rubble! Hold on, Master Elf!"

When at last the prone figure of the Elf was revealed, Gimli tossed his axe aside and hurried to crouch beside him. "I'm sorry I did not find you sooner, Legolas."

"Nonsense," the Elf murmured. There was a cryptic undertone to his normally lilting voice that was not lost on Gimli as he added, "You found me just in time."

Gently, the Dwarf pushed aside the grey Elven cloak. "Ai, Legolas, your wound is considerable!" Gimli exclaimed, shocked by the amount of blood that was soaking through the heavy jerkin. He undid the clasps carefully, opened the jerkin, and gently undid each of the four fastenings of the silver tunic beneath, grumbling all the while under his breath about the Elven tendency to wear far too many garments. Legolas managed a very weak grin at that; he might well have expected to be chastened about something.

Having finally laid bare the Elf's pale chest, Gimli examined the injury more closely. It was located above and to the left of the heart. That was fortunate, although Legolas had lost an obscene amount of blood already, and it continued to flow lazily from the deep laceration.

The puncture was clearly from a spear of the Haradrim, which Legolas had no doubt deftly removed and, more likely than not, hurled right back at his attacker with deadly precision.

"My wound is mortal, Gimli," came the quiet declaration as the Elf reached to take his friend's hand. "As I said before, you found me just in time. It warms my heart to know I will not perish alone among unfamiliar men, but in the presence of my closest friend."

"Do not speak that way!" Gimli insisted, sitting down and carefully lifting the much taller Elf into his lap, or at least most of him anyway. "It is not so! Your wound is not mortal! Do not be so bleak! You will be fine, Legolas. You just need Aragorn. Where is that blasted man?!"

"Aragorn cannot help me, my friend. It is too late. Even now, I feel the life ebbing from me." There were tears sparkling in the blue eyes as they searched his Dwarven friend's rough, weathered face. His voice when spoke again was small and afraid. "I do not wish to go. I want to see the Fellowship reunited, and I want to be certain that Frodo and Sam are safe and unharmed. I want to watch Sauron fall, and live to see Middle Earth restored. I want to be there when Aragorn takes the crown. I want to show you the Greenwood." A sob escaped his pale lips as he thought of his home. "Ai, Gimli, I want to see my father."

"You are not going anywhere, you foolish Elf! Just you wait and see! You are not dying!"

"I am dying, Gimli, and I am sorry. I feel my soul being tugged at by forces unseen, and I fear I must go. Mandos is summoning me, Gimli, and if I do not answer, I will not be admitted into his Halls." He sighed, and there was great sadness in the sound. "Mandos calls, and I must answer."

Gimli was openly crying now. The tears ran freely into his beard. "Legolas, don't go. You ca--" Choking on the words, he repeated, "You can't go! To Mordor with Mandos! He can wait! It is not your time! You have so much left to do and see! We have emerged victorious, Legolas! The battle is over! The war is won! You must live to enjoy the rewards of our sacrifices and sufferings!"

"Gimli, if I am to be the last sacrifice in the name of the Free Peoples, it will be my greatest relief. My suffering will end, and I will go forth to the Halls of Mandos knowing my death was not in vain."

"You will not suffer long! Aragorn will be here any moment! The hands of the king are the hands of a healer! You know this! Just hold on; Aragorn will come!"

"Goheno nin,"the Elf murmured.

"Forgive you?" Gimli asked. "Forgive you for what, Legolas? You have done nothing wrong."

"Forgive me, for not knowing how to say goodbye to you, Gimli."

"It doesn't matter if you don't know how to say goodbye! Goodbye is not necessary! You will NOT die, Legolas! You were supposed to outlive the entire Fellowship! You were the one we all were counting on to regale the journeys of the Nine Walkers for centuries after the other seven of us have gone! You are the one who will keep the memory of the War of the Ring alive!"

Legolas hardly skipped a beat. "There are no words to express my gratitude to the Valar for bringing such an amazing friend as you into my life. I would rather have you as my friend, son of Gloin, than all the Elves in Middle Earth. You have enriched my life in ways you cannot imagine, and I want to thank you for that. Gimli, promise me you will take care of yourself, and Aragorn. He will need you to help him say goodbye to me, and you know that stubborn man would never ask for the assistance of anyone."

"Ai, Legolas, how can I help him when I cannot even bear to say goodbye myself?"

The Elf managed a stern look. "Promise me."

Gimli whispered, his voice choked with emotion, "I promise."

Legolas was beginning to fight for breath now, and his words came haltingly between distressing gasps for air. "Master Dwarf, I have...to ask of you...a favor..."

Gimli leaned closer, his dark eyes searching those of his friend's as his heart ached at the familiarity of the old nickname. "Anything, Master Elf. Anything you ask."

"Go to...my...father, Gimli," Legolas rasped, his melodic voice fading in and out with each painfully uttered word. "Forgive him and release your...hatred toward him. I want you two...to reconcile your...differences and understand why I...loved you both. I want you both to know why in my eyes...you were equals. Please. For...me."

The Dwarf nodded emphatically. "You have my word. I will."

Legolas nodded too, but his was of relief. "Hannon le."

"No need to thank me, Legolas. Just hold on, now. You will yet come with me to your father's realm and watch us reconcile. Just think, Legolas, you will journey with me to the Greenwood, and see it restored in all its lush glory! Won't that be wonderful?"

But Legolas would have none of Gimli's babbling. He was resigned to the reality of his situation. He kept shaking his head until Gimli caught his chin in his hand and stared at him hard. "Stop acting as if this will be the last time we will talk, Legolas! It is not so!"

"Gimli," the Elf in his arms whispered. The agony-clouded eyes were filled with desperation, and were fixed on his best friend's face. "You have...been the...truest friend I've ever...had."

Legolas coughed, and Gimli tried to adjust him to help him breathe, but it was no use. The golden Elf was fading fast. Gimli felt a wave of panic begin to rise in his heart.

"Don't talk like that, foolish pointy-ear!" Gimli insisted, desperately trying to keep Legolas with him until Aragorn could get there. He brushed the fine hair away from Legolas's face. "You are going to be fine. When will you learn to trust this Dwarf, Master Elf, and take him at his word?"

"I love you, Gimli, son of Gloin, my friend until the end of Ilúvatar's song," Legolas whispered. "Namárië, Elvellon."

"No, Legolas Thranduilion," the Dwarf cried in a demanding tone, "don't you dare say goodbye to me! Hold on! You just have to hold on, Legolas, just a bit longer...help is on the way. Legolas, stay with me. Legolas! Stay with me!"

Gimli watched in absolute panic as the beautiful blue eyes darkened, then drifted closed slowly. The radiant aura that had always given the Elf a light of his own began diminishing, and he went limp as a wilted flower. "Legolas? Open your eyes! Legolas, wake up! Legolas?! No...no! NO! LEGOLAS!" The Dwarf's usually growling baritone was raw and hoarse with grief.

Reality hit him like a spear to the heart. He clutched the still Elf closer to him, throwing his head back and releasing a keening wail of despair.

He was so caught up in his hysteria that he did not hear the running footsteps approaching.

Merry and Pippin were the first to arrive, their small swords drawn, thinking upon hearing the horrible sound that somehow a Warg had escaped being slain. They both skidded to a startled stop, seeing their frighteningly pale and motionless Elven friend cradled in the arms of the disconsolate Dwarf they had always revered as unwavering.

The horrified Hobbits looked desperately to Gandalf, who came upon the scene next, for answers, but the Maia was absolutely rendered speechless and immobile by the sight before him.

Eomer rode up on a dappled stallion, one of the few horses left uninjured in the battle. None had ever seen the Prince of the Mark, for all his legendary horsemanship skills, dismount that quickly, but once his feet touched the earth, he remained in one place as if he had grown roots, his dark eyes taking in the situation with mounting apprehension.

"Gimli, he's gone." The voice behind him was gentle, as were the hands that came to rest on his shoulders, which were shaking with the force of his sobbing.

He refused to look away from the Elf's pale face. It would have been unnecessary anyway; he knew it was Gandalf who had spoken.

"He cannot be!" the Dwarf ground out, suddenly becoming angry at the cruel fate his friend had been subjected to. "He is immortal! He is of the Eldar! A child of Ilúvatar! He is an Elf, by the Valar! Elves live forever! He is meant one day far into the future to set sail over the sea in one of those grey ships he rambles about, and head for Valinor, to the Grey Havens and the Undying Lands, to heed the call of those blasted gulls he's been aching over, to follow the fate of his people, not to die like this! I was supposed to die before him, and by Eru, I wish it were so! Gandalf, it cannot be! Legolas cannot be gone!"

The wizard's face conveyed absolute sorrow as he listened to Gimli's rambling. After the Dwarf had tapered off to pitiful whimpers, Gandalf said softly, "Gimli, you must let him go."

"No! It cannot be!" the Dwarf moaned, fresh sobs tearing from his throat.

Footsteps thundered closer. Gimli knew the identity before he even saw the approaching figure who had yet to come upon this awful scene of death and sorrow.

Sure enough, Aragorn was running toward them. "What has happened?!" he cried, not fully comprehending the situation yet, but having known for quite awhile now with absolute certainty that something was terribly amiss.

"Legolas?" he asked, approaching slowly now, his confusion written all over his face as he recognized the supine form of his friend. "Ai Elbereth!" he cried, noticing the appalling amount of blood. "Legolas?!"

Gimli's heart broke as he watched recognition spread across the dirty face, his eyes widening and filling with dread. "Legolas?! Oh, no...Legolas?!"

Aragorn's mouth fell open in horror as he dropped heavily to his knees no more than a foot from Gimli and the lifeless Elf. His blood-spattered sword, Andúril, fell from his slack hand and clattered to the ground where it lay glinting dully in the sunlight.

Gimli relinquished his grip on Legolas unbidden for Aragorn, who took the listless body gently into his arms, watching the still face intently for any signs of life. But there were none.

As far as everyone who witnessed it was concerned, the entire world fell to pieces as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, leader of the Fellowship and future King of Men, lowered his anguished face until it was buried deep in the golden hair, and let loose a series of heart-wrenching, hysterical sobs that seemed to come from the very center of his soul.