WARNING: It's going to get a little rough in this chapter - there will be blood.

Chapter 11: Consequences

"Valar, Aragorn! It's…it's the elf!"

Gimli's words seized Aragorn in his tracks, and then the look of distress in the dwarf's wide eyes turned to one of pain.

"Aragorn…" he said tearfully, and when the Ranger still remained rooted to the spot, he yelled: "Move, man!"

Snapping out of his shocked stupor, Aragorn ran out of the tent after the dwarf with a feeling of terrible dread in his heart. Outside, he saw a group of Rohirrim gathered around a nearby tent. He felt his breath catch in his throat when he realized whose it was: the one Legolas and Gimli shared. With his heart hammering in his chest, he passed Gimli and covered the few yards with his long legs in seconds. He pushed aside the men to burst through the tent opening.

Just inside the tent,a hand grabbed his arm, stopping him from going further. Aragorn found himself looking at the blanched face of Eomer, who swallowed and said:

"Aragorn, you should not see this…"

The Ranger's blood froze at the words, but he pulled his arm free of Eomer's grip and walked forward. Gandalf, Theoden and three healers stood solemn and silent over some bedding, and when they noticed the presence of Aragorn, they blanched as Eomer had, and parted to let him through – to let him witness his worst nightmare.

On the bedding lay the still body of the elf prince Legolas – his blood painting the white linen red. Rumil knelt at the side of the lifeless form, draping himself over the unmoving chest and weeping audibly.

The Ranger was frozen to the spot, and he felt his mind and his body separate. Numbly, he took in the bruised face in which blue glass eyes stared unblinking at nothing, vacant and unseeing. His own eyes looked at the bloody throat, where a rusty dagger had brought an end to the fair being's breath, draining his life's blood. Vaguely, he heard – as from a great distance – words from the speech of the others around him: orcs – Wildmen – not certain – surprise – wanted to be alone – scream – too late...

How had this happened? How? Just earlier that evening, the elf had been warm and beautiful and alive…

Aragorn sank to his knees, weak and numb. He reached out a shaky hand – though it did not feel like his – to the pale, cold face, then to the red sticky liquid on the neck. How could this beautiful being that had brought joy and love to him for decades be so cold and still now?

"Wake up, Legolas... please wake up," his voice came, raspy and hardly above a whisper. He vaguely noticed Rumil lifting his head from Legolas' chest, the elven eyes haunted, the face painted with fury. Aragorn could not understand why, but he did not care, and his own eyes remained fixed on Legolas' blue ones, beautiful even in death.

The Ranger's blood-covered fingers stroked one pale cheek, leaving red streaks in their path. "Wake up, Legolas…" he called softly, as if it was some rosy morning in Imladris and he was trying to gently rouse his friend from sleep. "Why are you so still, Legolas? Why don't you breathe?" he asked in a plaintive voice that tugged at the heartstrings of those listening.

Then, as the man realized that the elf would not be waking, tears began to leak from his eyes. "Do not leave me, my love," he sobbed. My love… my love… Aragorn thought bitterly how he had never dared to say those words when the elf was alive to hear them, and how he wished now that he had had the courage to do so earlier. "My love," he breathed again, "let not the Halls of Mandos take you from me…"

"You sent him there," a bitter and tearful voice pronounced, and Aragorn turned to see Rumil's accusing eyes on him. As the Ranger stared uncomprehendingly, the elf continued to berate him. "You insulted him, and he sought solitude!"

"Rumil – " Gandalf said gently, but the elf was too incensed to stop.

"A passing fancy – that was all he was to you! And your words drove him to seek solace in the woods!" the Lorien elf spat at Aragorn.

"Rumil!"

Aragorn's blood ran cold. He heard? He realized with a shock, and looked at the lifeless face again. I did not mean it, Legolas! I just meant I had no choice but to let you pass from my life! You misunderstood, my love – I never meant it!

"If not for you, he would not have gone there – alone – and he would not be dead!" the elf finished.

Dead. Legolas was dead. Gone.

The truth hit Aragorn cruelly.

Legolas was gone. And he had caused it – he had caused it! He had killed the only person he had ever loved. How could it have happened? How – ?

Suddenly, Aragorn cried out. He felt hands touching him, pulling at him, and he snapped. Who was trying to take him from his beloved? How dare they! He screamed, and he could not stop. Screaming filled him, it came out of him, it was all he could do.

Hands tried to take him from Legolas' side. Eomer, Theoden, Gimli, Gandalf… but no, he would not leave it. He drew his dagger and waved it wildly at everyone – at Rumil whom he hated now – and he made them leave, his screams still renting the air.

And then he was alone with Legolas.

He dropped the dagger and lowered himself to sit by the still form, kissing the pale cheeks with shaking lips. Shivering hands tried to remove the blood from the golden hair, blood that had come from the sliced throat, gaping wide and red, soaking the bed and the clothes with crimson.

Then Aragorn raised his eyes to the ceiling of the tent and screamed one name: "Sarumaaaaan!"

Over and over, he shouted the name, till there appeared before him again the white figure of the traitorous wizard.

Aragorn stood and his eyes blazed with torment. "What have you done!" he demanded, agony lacing every word.

Saruman did not flinch. "You said I should stop the bonding, did you not?" he asked calmly. "Well, I have." Aragorn watched with incredulous eyes as the wizard pointed to the body. "He will not bond now."

Realization of the wizard's treachery – and his own folly – struck Aragorn like a ton of bricks, and his mind went mad. With a yell, he rushed at Saruman, but in a puff of smoke and a resounding cackle of victory, the old man disappeared, leaving Aragorn to stare unbelieving into thin air and cursing both the wizard and himself to the very depths of his existence.

--xx00xx--

The days and weeks following the death of the elf prince – my beloved Legolas – go by in a ghastly blur for me.

I am dead in my heart. But the war goes on, so I have to go on as well.

I lead the armies, we come to the Black Gate, and we hold Sauron's attention as we have planned, hoping against hope to give Frodo and Sam the opportunity they need to destroy the Ring and end the reign of the Dark Lord.

Who would believe it would work?

But it does. It is done. It is over. We are victorious and the Dark One is overthrown.

Yet – I weep, for the golden elf who would have been at my side sees not the destruction of Mordor that he fought so hard to witness.

I am crowned, and King Elessar Telcontar of the House of Strider is proclaimed ruler of Gondor amidst the joyous cheers of my people – just I have known I would be since the age of twenty. I wed the beautiful Evenstar, just like I have been prepared to do. And I beget heirs – just as I have told myself I would need to.

But my beloved Legolas sees none of these events – what my people consider to be triumphs.

Days and weeks and months and years flow by, and the sky over Gondor is always dim and depressing, devoid of light like the heart of its king.

I am Elessar, the Elfstone of my people, and I grow increasingly morose and brooding, for I live with a terrible memory: a day when I let the dark powers guide my actions. And I force myself to go on without one who would have been the light of my life.

Through the long years of my reign, the king that Gondor had waited for hundreds of years to welcome back turns into a careless, heartless ruler – mocked and hated by all. A poison eats into me, slowly but surely, till I am but a man who rants and goes mad. And now my people cannot wait to be rid of me.

Enough, my people say. We need a king, not a living corpse; we need a leader who lives in the Present, not one who dwells in the Past.

And in the darkest days of my rule, mobs come for me, to take my life and remove me from the throne. My guards protect me out of sheer duty, till I grow weary, and I am ready to yield to whatever end awaits me, for I no longer care.

Do what you will to me, I say, for I am already dead. I died the day Legolas did.

Now I stand on the ramparts of my Citadel so that the City below can see me.

Now I hold out my arms wide and laugh – it is a bitter laugh that captures all the cruelty my life has dealt me, and the remorse I feel over my folly, and the despair that governs each moment of my being.

And now, as my people watch, and my queen begs, and my children cry, I smile. And I throw myself from the heights of my rule into the depths of blackness and nothingness awaiting me… and as I fall, all I see is the white, lifeless face of an elf with cold glass eyes…

(To be continued... )

NOTE: As stated earlier in the story, some ideas were inspired by a great story called "Convictions" written by Peaceangel at another site. However, the plot and ending remain different.