The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

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Chapter 74 – Grief

Eomer paced outside the room. It was late, gone midnight, and he should have retired to his own quarters to rest but he could not. He knew he would not be able to sleep anyway. Besides, it felt wrong to leave whilst inside Aragorn remained on vigil within.

He looked to the closed door. No sound came from inside but that meant nothing. Legolas would not be crying out loud no matter what agonies he was facing. He paced again, back and forth. Several times already he had considered going in, offering support, a shoulder to cry on, but there was nothing he could do or say to make this easier for the young king and he felt like he would only be in the way if he intruded now. So he settled for waiting impatiently outside for some news from inside.

"Anything yet?"

Eomer looked around at Jecha as he approached. "No nothing."

The Easterling sighed heavily and immediately and gracefully moved to sit down on the floor. He had no need for the restless pacing that Eomer had to rely on to keep his peace. "Drink?" he asked, reaching inside his scarlet robes for a flask that looked suspiciously like it had at some point belonged to the Rangers.

"Thank you."

Taking a long drink, Eomer marvelled once more at the potency of the liquid brewed out in the wilds by the Rangers of the North. He exhaled a long breath at downing the liquid. And although he liked the way it burned his throat, it didn't help his anxiety. But then he supposed that it wouldn't until he had drunk considerably more of it.

"How much longer do you think?" the Rohan man asked uselessly.

"I have no idea."

"You know, I have never liked Legolas particularly, but I would not have wished this upon anyone. I would not wish him death."

"No. Nor I."

"I was thinking of going in to offer my support – but I cannot think of what to say to him."

"There is nothing to say. They are like father and son. One cannot justify to a grieving son the death of a father."

Eomer looked down at the robed man, noting dark eyes directed at the floor as he spoke. "You speak as if from experience."

Jecha raised his eyes and Eomer could imagine a wavering smile on his lips beneath the safety of his mask. "Who hasn't lost someone beloved in this war?"

The tall Rohan commander released another breath and fell against the wall, resting his head back against the cold Gondorian stone. So far, this kingdom was not all he had hoped for. He slid down so that he was crouched on the floor next to the Easterling. "I'm tired of fighting. I know that that is not a proper thing for a warrior to speak of-" Jecha waved this away, dismissing the notion that it was inappropriate to voice such in their profession. "I just want to return to the kingdom of my ancestors, away from all of this war, and live a life of peace. Maybe do some farming, get the crops on my land growing again; start rebuilding the place I grew up in."

"You are fortunate," Jecha said, taking back the flask and replacing it in his robes without touching the alcohol himself. Eomer wondered whether he kept it on his person simply to appease other people. "I have no such home to return to."

"That's right. You are a deserter amongst your people."

Jecha chuckled at the bluntness of this assessment and nodded. "A traitor. Were I to return to my home I think I would be executed for treason. So I have no problem with dying in this war. At least my death would be worth something."

"Cheery."

"Indeed."

OIOI

He couldn't move for the longest time. Physically couldn't move his body. All his limbs were completely numb, as though his blood had stilled in his veins and would not start pumping again. He just sat there, staring into the darkness, not even seeing the blackness. It felt as though his whole world had fallen away and he was just stranded in a void, unable to escape that which bound him.

There were things to do. His body might have been motionless but his mind was whirling with so many things that he was having trouble keeping track. Menial things. Pointless, it seemed. And yet they were cast into sharp relief in the silence, given disproportionate importance. But, even as the urgency in his mind grew, his body remained stiff and immobile. All will to live had deserted him when his guardian had ceased to breathe a little over an hour ago. All will to do anything had left him. So he just sat there, waiting for feeling to return, waiting for the pain to hit him. He was expecting it. He knew it would come and that it would knock him down in its intensity. Nothing to do but wait. It felt like that was all he had been doing for days now. Waiting.

Aragorn heaved a sigh and finally bent forwards, almost folding himself in half, the first movement he had made in an hour. It brought him closer to Legolas and he startled at seeing the pale face so close to him. He sat up straight again, his eyes never leaving the body laid at his side. Legolas almost looked peaceful laid there on the bed. His wounds were still obvious, wrapped in bloody bandages that had ceased to be useful some time ago, but his face had lost its tight look of pain. His eyes stood half-open but glazed and empty, no more spark of life shining in them. His mouth stood slightly open from the last words that had left the thin lips, the pledge he had made to Aragorn. Somehow, he no longer looked real.

Cautiously, Aragorn reached out his hand and touched his fingers to the waxy face. Legolas did not yet feel cold. Had it not been for the vacant look on his features, Aragorn could have believed that he could have sat up right then and spouted some more words of wisdom to his ward.

But Legolas did not move. He remained unchanged.

Finally, Aragorn felt his arms and legs beginning to work again. He shifted on the bed, eyes still locked on Legolas' form. Surely this wasn't real. Nothing about this felt real. From the moment he had discovered Legolas buried beneath the bodies of their enemies slain in battle, to this moment here sitting with the prince's lifeless body. It felt like a dream, a nightmare he had walked in long ago. He wondered idly when the truth would set in. He wondered how painful it would be. He wondered how he would survive it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He didn't care that it was pointless. He just felt like he had to say it. And he was sorry. Wracked with guilt for what he had done, for the mistakes he had made, for things not said. "I am sorry."

Tears trickled down his face, falling to the blankets beneath him, those that covered the still Elven form. They fell silently. He made no other sound and that seemed to suit the atmosphere. Legolas had not panicked at the end. He had not screamed in pain as some soldiers might have, he had not begged to live, or begged for forgiveness for the sins of his life. He had been quiet, refined, offering quiet condolences and advice to his ward. Right up until the last breath had rattled out of his tortured lungs he had been calm, stalwart, in control of himself. Just as he had lived his life. And it seemed right to Aragorn, that that was how it ended.

Carefully, Aragorn finally disengaged his hand from Legolas' and moved the stiff limbs and laid them across the Elf's chest. He hesitated only slightly in this task, worried irrationally that his actions might cause his guardian harm. A small, trembling smile came to his lips at the absurdity. Legolas would have admonished him for such thinking had he been privy to it.

Once he had arranged his guardian into a more respectful position, Aragorn sat back with a shaky exhale of breath. Legolas would not want to have been looked upon in a state of disarray and surely the people of Gondor would want to come and pay their respects eventually to their fallen comrade. No doubt, Aragorn thought, that people would also wish to speak with him, to offer condolences and words of support and encouragement, to bolster his spirits such as was the way with Men. He would accept such sympathies stoically for that was what Legolas would have wanted from him. Never had the Elf encouraged him to hide from his people. He would consider this just another step towards his position as ruling king and probably then consider his death to have been useful after all. The thought of Legolas considering such a thing repulsed Aragorn though and he wondered how he would ever be able to stomach what lay ahead.

Gingerly, Aragorn got to his feet, pleased to find that his shaky legs would support him at last. He stared for a while longer down at Legolas, fearful that this might be the last time he would look upon one he loved so dearly. But, there was much to do in Minas Tirith and he was avoiding it all. So he took a short step backwards, as though testing his fortitude. Another tear tracked down his face but he was not concerned about that. Surely no one would begrudge him his grief.

Then he backed up until he was at the door. He knew that people would be waiting outside. Jecha almost certainly would have stuck around, waiting for the inevitable. Maybe some of the Rangers too. People he knew and could trust. That was of some small comfort. He would be able to test himself again, quantify his reactions and thus prepare himself for what might be coming next when he had to confront others less close to him. He placed his hand on the cold metal of the doorknob but found that he didn't have the strength to turn it. Fear raced through him, suddenly speeding his heart. Now that it came to it, he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay at Legolas' side and continue with the pretence that this had not happened for as long as possible. It would have been easy, he imagined, to indulge in such a fantasy. Locked up in this room alone with his guardian and mentor, no one would challenge him. True, Legolas would not have approved but what did that matter how? He turned and put his back to the door, his eyes finding the Elf lying still on the bed.

"Aragorn?"

Behind him, he felt a slight pressure on the door; someone pushing gently to try to get in. Irrationally, he resisted. Torn between staying here where it was safe and returning to where he was needed, where he was supposed to be, Aragorn closed his eyes and tried to compose himself.

"Aragorn, are you all right?"

It was Eomer, without a doubt. Surprising, that the Rohan man had stayed. He had not even been on Aragorn's list of possibilities of those out in the corridor waiting for him to emerge. A gentle knock came from the door then. Not demanding, just enquiring.

"Please, Aragorn, can you let us in? Let us help, my friend."

He let the words wash over him, let them bring him comfort. More tears leaked from his eyes and he remained pressed against the door, barring entry to the room. Not yet. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for this.

"Not yet," he croaked out without even realising it. "Not yet."

"All right, my friend," Eomer replied softly, understandingly. "When you're ready. We'll be here."

Aragorn slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, pulled his knees up and rested his forehead against them. His shoulders shook with his cries as he let the terrible truth wash over him once again.

It turned out that it wasn't painful as he had expected it to be, dealing with the realisation that Legolas was dead. It was agony. Pure and simple. It hurt so much that he didn't think he could stand it. He clenched his hands over his heart, wishing that such a simple action could ease the pain in his chest, but it was not that simple. Nothing could ease this agony.

He sat in silence, letting it all sink in. Reality was a cruel thing indeed. How had Legolas survived all those long years with the weight of his guilt pressing down on him as it did now on Aragorn? He still could not shake the feeling that all this was his fault. He had been the one who had begged Legolas for help him in the first place, he had been the one cursed with this burden, he had stuck with Legolas when he could just have easily of left, just walked away and gone along his own path, leaving the unwitting guardian free of the responsibility. He should have done it that first night the dream had come to him, when he had seen Legolas taken from him by the Shadow. But he had not. He had been selfish, needing the steady guidance of the Elf to bear him to his destiny. Because of him, Legolas was gone and he was all alone.

He thought back to all the times he had spoken his fears to Legolas, to all the times that his guardian had sworn allegiance to him, had promised faithfully to always be there, to follow wherever. And all the things he had done in a bid to hurt Legolas. He thought back to all the anger he had felt towards him. After his father's death, he had blamed the Elf, had hated him for taking him away from the familiar. Then he had despised Legolas for wanting to remain on the familiar road close to his home. He had tried to run away, had scared his guardian half to death in his actions and nearly gotten them both killed in the process. And then, he had chosen the ways of Men, all but forsaking the teachings of his mentor in favour of Mankind. All in all, he considered himself an unappreciative ward. And now, the ultimate insult: Legolas had died for him.

For a long hour, he cried. Cried until he couldn't cry anymore. Following the battle and the grief that nearly overwhelmed him, he was tired, exhausted, but he knew he could not find sleep. Not yet. So much to do, so many people to speak with.

Slowly, he pulled himself wretchedly up off the floor, leaned against the door for a moment to get his bearings. His eyes scanned the room. It was still dark, still night. Legolas still lay, unmoving, unchanged upon the bed. Aragorn closed his eyes but no tears slipped loose this time. There was nothing left inside him. Maybe later he could let all the grief to overwhelm him again in the hope of achieving some semblance of peace.

Reaching behind him, he turned the doorknob. Predictably, Eomer was still outside and he stepped away from the wall where he had been resting when he saw Aragorn hesitantly coming out of the room.

The king looked a mess, Eomer decided upon his emergence. His clothes were in complete disarray, still dirtied and crisp with dried blood after the battle, and tears stained his grimy cheeks. Aragorn's grey eyes were on the ground, unwilling to look upwards, but Eomer could see that they were still wet with tears.

"Aragorn?" the Rohan man said softly, stepping closer. He could not see into the room behind the king but he knew that Legolas lay dead within. Nothing else would prompt Aragorn to leave his guardian.

"He's-" Aragorn started, glancing up, but couldn't continue. He didn't need to.

"I'm sorry." Torn between hugging the man in sympathy and keeping a respectful distance, Eomer took an uneasy step forward but he needn't have worried over his decision because Aragorn stepped back away from him, fingers clenching around the doorknob. He didn't want to accept such condolences yet. "Is there anything-?" No, that was useless too. There was nothing he could do.

"I am sorry for your loss, Aragorn," Jecha said, coming forward and Aragorn nodded in appreciation. At least he didn't have to worry about Jecha attempting any awkward displays of affection. Still, the Easterling came forward and laid his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You must be exhausted. Let us find you a room and get you cleaned up."

Unable to think of anything at all to say, Aragorn simply nodded at this. He was tired and a slight reprieve from the duty of his kingdom would be appreciated.

"All right. Come on."

Jecha led Aragorn through the quiet hallways. It was night and most people had retired to the rooms being used as dormitories to rest before presumably starting with the clean-up in the morning. Aragorn was glad for the peace. He didn't want the attention he knew his presence would draw. Not now.

It was a sad processional that made its way sombrely through the white halls of Minas Tirith. Strange, Aragorn thought to himself, that he had worked so hard for this kingdom, fought and sent others to fight and die for it and yet he had not yet taken much notice of the Human city recaptured. The white stone had been stunning to look at from the outside, but in here the walls seemed claustrophobic, built close together in long, high narrow corridors. He had no idea where he was being led but took comfort in the fact that Jecha seemed confident of the way. A smile almost tugged at his lips at the thought that the king of Gondor didn't even know his own home.

His rooms, it turned out, were on the Seventh Level - the king's level. He felt far away from Legolas now and a pang of pain tugged at his chest but he swallowed it back, not allowing it to overwhelm him again.

"Through here," prompted Jecha, guiding Aragorn through an impressive arch and then through a set of elaborately decorated double doors. Without doubt, this was a room for a king. The Orcs had mainly inhabited the lower levels, for convenience's sake; this top level was a little neglected but remained relatively undamaged. There was no furniture in his vast rooms but a fire had been lit in the large hearth and a thick pile of furs laid in front of it would substitute a bed.

Aragorn paused in the entrance, looking around his room. It was impressive. Had he not been so numb with grief he would have almost been excited at its splendour for he had never seen the like before. As it was, he could not feel anything. So he stepped inside, aware that Jecha and Eomer lingered in the doorway, as though awaiting his signal of approval. He turned to them and offered a weak smile.

"Is there anything you need, Your Majesty?" Jecha asked formally and Aragorn wondered at the title and the sudden formality. It would take some getting used to but it was a part of him now and he could not be rid of it. After all, he had lost much for such confirmation of his lineage, to deny it would be a terrible shame.

"No. Nothing, thank you."

"Very well. We shall leave you to sleep."

Eomer seemed reluctant to leave, remaining in the doorway even as Jecha moved away. "You're sure you don't want anything?" Aragorn shook his head in response. "All right. Get some rest. We'll be close by if you need anything during the night."

"Thank you, commander," Aragorn said with a small bow of his head. Before Eomer could close the door though, a thought came to the young king and he called the Rohan man back. "Eomer, how is Eowyn? I forgot to ask."

Eomer looked genuinely surprised at the enquiry but he answered with a small smile that felt both exceptionally good and terribly wrong at the same time. "She is doing better. The healers believe she will make a complete recovery – given time."

It shouldn't have hurt to hear that wonderful news but somehow it did. Hiding his sadness that Eowyn lived whilst Legolas laid dead downstairs, the king smiled gratefully for the answer and turned away; almost like he had been doing it all his life, dismissing his subjects. Eomer took the hint and closed the door to leave his king to rest after the exhausting events of the day.

For a long while, Aragorn simply stood in the middle of the room, not sure what to do with himself. He was tired but he feared to sleep. His mind was whirling again, but this time with questions about the battle. So much must have happened during his time away from his people but he didn't have the heart to search out a report. So, he stood in the room – his room – and peeled off all of his filthy clothing. There was nothing to replace it so he picked up one of the furs and wrapped it about his cold form and went to sit down by the fire. It was warm here and he felt comfortable and drowsy, so he laid down on the flagstones, aching eyes locked on the flickering flames, and waited for sleep to claim him. Perhaps in the morning he would feel better. After all, things couldn't possibly feel worse.

OIOI

He woke up stiff from being still for so long after prolonged exertion. Every one of his limbs ached fiercely and he stretched slowly, being careful as the pain began to fade. Aragorn found himself laid on the stone floor, wrapped up tightly in his luxurious furs. He had slept well, long and deep. His mind was curiously fuzzy, the product of a long sleep following many days and nights awake but he found he quite liked the feeling.

He rolled over onto his back and for a moment stared at the high, vaulted ceiling, wondering whether the events he remembered were merely a terrible nightmare. But it was wishful thinking that he could not indulge in. The tear stains still covering his face and the image of his guardian lying pale and unmoving was etched into his memory. Legolas was dead.

For a long while, he laid where he was, simply thinking upon what had happened. He was confident that no one would disturb him. He recalled with perfect clarity their looks of sympathy for him the night before. How he despised sympathy. Perhaps he had learned that from Legolas, for he knew the Elf would have been just as appalled at the glances that had followed the king to his room.

As he laid there, waiting for something to prompt him to get up, Aragorn let himself think back to the one who had saved him all those years ago on the Old Forest Road. He thought upon all of Legolas' actions, his guidance, his words of comfort. To say that he would miss his companion was an understatement. Right then, he couldn't imagine even getting up off this floor. It was all too much. He was alone now, entirely and completely, no matter what anyone told him. Eomer and Faramir and Janor were good friends to him and they were good commanders in their own right, but they were not Legolas.

In his mind he travelled to Lothlorien to see Legolas' sadness in recalling to his ward his past for the first time; then to Rivendell, where he had met another Elf for the first time. He thought upon Elrond and the aloof but kindly Erestor and wondered whatever had become of them. He hoped that they still resided in their homeland, ignored by the Shadow but he doubted it. He thought about the Rangers and their reaction when Legolas had first told Kinnale about their plans. In Bree, his guardian had been distant, more so than Aragorn had ever known, wanting to prepare him for the duties that lay ahead. It was after Bree that Aragorn felt things had started to go wrong. For some unfathomable reason, their relationship had changed after their first encounter with a town of Men. Aragorn didn't know why and he had never really pressed Legolas for an answer. He would regret that for the rest of his life. There was much about his occasionally turbulent relationship with his reluctant guardian that would haunt him. And now redemption was beyond him. He would never be reunited with Legolas now.

Tears were streaming down his face now and the ceiling above him was blurred. He didn't care though. Legolas wasn't around anymore to tell him to pull himself together.

Slowly, Aragorn came around. Pulling himself from his memories, both good and bad, he shoved the furs from around him and let the coolness of the room flow over his naked body. It felt good, revived him somewhat. With some effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked about himself. It was a nice room, he realised in surprise. Fit for a king.

The fire had burned out some time ago and it made him wonder just for how long he had been sleeping. Over the large windows were long, thick drapes that would block out any sunlight were it daytime. So Aragorn gained his feet, finding his legs a little stiff for the first few steps, and walked over to the windows, whipping back the thick curtains. No light. It was night again. He had slept a whole day away.

Rubbing his mud-caked face, Aragorn stood for a minute, looking out at the scene before him. Fires burned here and there. Funeral pyres for the dead, he presumed. They were positioned a fair ways apart and were massive, indicating that they were probably the fires of the Shadow rather than the allies. He found a bitter happiness rising within him. The Shadow had stolen much. They deserved the losses sustained at the hands of Men.

Down below on the Pelennor, people were still hard at work. He could see flickering torches shining amidst the darkness. He wondered at their resilience. Many had lost family and friends, surely some of them were even hurt themselves, and yet they persevered with the task at hand, unwilling to give in.

Suddenly, guilt assailed Aragorn. Whilst his people worked, he had been up here slumbering, wallowing in his grief. It was unbecoming of a king. Or so Legolas would have chastised him had he been here.

So, Aragorn pulled on his clothing and straightened out the filthy, wrinkled garments in an effort to make himself look slightly less of a mess. He felt the soothing weight of the One Ring resting in his pocket where he had left it the night before. It had been careless, he thought now as he felt it press against his chest through the fabric of his shirt, to discard it so but he had been too distraught to care.

It had been easy, after losing Legolas to the Shadow, to distance himself from its enchantments. He hated it for failing him. He hated himself for feeling too weak to use it. He could have forced it upon Legolas, made him accept the help. He could have done it when the Elf slept through his delirium, not given a thought to what Legolas wanted. Yes, he would be despised by his guardian, but Legolas would be alive and that mattered more. The Ring was treacherous though. It had whispered to him as Legolas lay dying but never had it been overt. Something he wanted so badly, for his guardian to live, the power of the One should have been screaming at him. But it had forsaken him. He hated it for that. And yet, still he felt drawn to it. It pulled at his consciousness. It would never stop.

Pushing the pulsing call from his mind, Aragorn pulled on his jacket and went to the door. He made his way from his room and through the corridor to where he hoped people would be. Surely the commanders would be close by. He had no idea where he was going. He barely remembered being led to his room the night before. Still, it couldn't be that hard to find someone he knew and ask them about the efforts out on Pelennor.

It turned out that it was easy in the end. He simply followed the familiar voices drifting along the corridors. Recognising with ease the deep, confident tones of Eomer and Faramir, he followed the echoes down the vast corridor and found himself pulling open a large, heavy door leading into what he immediately realised had to be the throne room. This room was massive, made of shining white marble and decorated with the most intricate, detailed statues of the Men of old that Aragorn had ever seen. It surpassed the impressive house of Rivendell by far, and dwarfed Meduseld in Rohan.

Only a small group of people stood crowded close together in the room as though in conference but it was exactly who Aragorn would have expected to be there. They were stood up near where the twin thrones, one for the king and another for the ruling Steward, stood proudly, untouched by war. Aragorn recognised Eomer, Janor and Jecha immediately; although they all looked considerably cleaner and better rested than the last time he had seen them.

Standing in the tight circle with the three commanders were three men Aragorn had never seen before. He didn't even recognise them vaguely and could not place them as Ranger, Gondorian or Rohirrim and he got the impression from the three conversing commanders that they had never seen them before either.

Curious at these newcomers and what they were doing in the throne room, Aragorn stepped inside, his boots sounding loud and intrusive to him on the smooth white and black marbled floor. He approached slowly, hesitantly, and at first no one seemed to notice his entrance. Why would they? They were obviously deep in discussion about something that looked fairly serious.

"Aragorn!"

It was Faramir who raised the alarm. Aragorn had not seen him at first because he did not stand with the others but rather sat upon the tallest throne carved from a large hunk of perfect white marble; the throne of the king. Clearly, he thought he wasn't supposed to be up there because after his somewhat startled declaration of Aragorn's presence, he leapt up and hastily descended the steps, casting a quick glance at the smaller black throne sitting at the base of the steps, where he should have been sat as Steward.

The others all turned to look at him. Eomer looked startled that his king was up and about, Janor smiled thinly at him and Jecha remained typically unreadable behind his mask of silken black and crimson cloth. The other three, unknown men sized him up openly, taking in his appearance with curious, sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

"Hello," Aragorn said weakly, his voice a little unsteady and gravelly from lack of use. He felt utterly out of place amongst these great, confident warriors.

Finally Eomer snapped out of his surprise and stepped forward, gesturing for Aragorn to join him in the huddle.

"Aragorn, how are you feeling?"

Aragorn ignored the question of his health and planted his eyes firmly on the three new people come amongst them, more convinced now than ever that they had not been in Minas Tirith during the battle. He hoped that his friend would catch on to his confusion as to their presence and answer the question without him having to openly ask.

They were not familiar to him and yet they looked similar to the people he knew. Kin perhaps to one of the factions of Men. All were tall and slim, all had grey eyes much like his own and each held themselves proudly. They were commanders and warriors, Aragorn knew instantly, but travellers also for they looked worn from the road. They looked too well-maintained to be Wild Men and yet he was wary. Newcomers.

Finally deciding that Eomer was not going to catch on to his silent question and provide him with an answer, Aragorn went for the direct approach.

"Who are they?" he asked bluntly, nodding towards the three men, who stood silently back a little way from the commanders, waiting it seemed for the introductions to commence.

Eomer looked back at the men, as if he had momentarily forgotten their presence. When he looked back to his king, he answered in a low voice, full of suspicion that was reflected in his eyes. "Allies. So they say." Apparently, these newcomers had not yet entirely convinced Eomer of their claims.

A wry smile crossed the face of the new man in the centre before he stepped forward, hand extended in greeting, ready to shake with Aragorn. A friendly and peaceful introduction. "Your Majesty, it's a pleasure to meet you at long last. We have heard much about you."

Somewhat uncertainly, still not quite knowing who this man and his companions were, Aragorn took the proffered hand and shook within the firm grip. "Allies?" he asked simply, still eyeing the man up sternly. He had learned the hard way to be cautious with his trust. Releasing his grip, he then asked somewhat more gruffly than he had intended, "Do you not have names?"

The man smiled again; unfazed it seemed by the king's brusque approach. Perhaps he had planned for this meeting and it was playing out just as he expected. Certainly, he was not offended. "I am Halbarad and these are my Rangers, a sample of them at least."

Taking a step backwards in surprise, Aragorn looked to Janor in confusion as though he might know the men but then turned back to the man who had spoken. "Rangers?" he finally asked coldly, overcoming his surprise. "I have no recollection of you and I have travelled long with the Rangers of the North." His eyes sough Janor again, who merely shrugged.

"We were on a different assignment and came not from Bree as Janor and his men did," answered the man, Halbarad, without missing a beat. Clearly Janor had already been grilling them on their lineage. "We patrolled in the far east; I doubt we would ever have had a chance to cross paths with you or your companions; although their deeds are legendary throughout the free lands." His grey eyes sought out Janor and smiled kindly. The leader of the Rangers did not respond and Aragorn knew instantly that Janor's loyalty remained firmly on the side of the king and not with these men who claimed to be kin.

"Hiding were you?" Aragorn didn't know why he felt such hostility to this man who came forward now proclaiming himself an ally to the cause. It seemed convenient though that he came to Minas Tirith right after the battle had been won looking for kin.

Unoffended by the jibe, Halbarad answered calmly, "We have been busy."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Did you hear about the destruction of the Corsair fleet?"

"No."

"Well, that victory belonged to the Rangers."

Aragorn looked towards Eomer again but the Rohan man just shrugged, indicating he was none the wiser than Aragorn himself. "What do you want then?"

"We come to pledge allegiance to you, King."

"Is that so?" Aragorn asked disinterestedly. "You come at a most convenient time."

Halbarad lowered his head, eyes on the floor, at the barbed remark and nodded. "Yes, we saw that you have recently been in battle with the Shadow. We regret that we were unable to aid you in the taking of Minas Tirith."

"Regret it?" Aragorn asked softly, looking around the silent room and then pinning an icy stare on Halbarad. "Hundreds of our people died in that battle."

"I apologise. But there was nothing we could have done. Besides, it seems that you are victorious."

Aragorn opened his mouth to snap out a sharp reply but he found that he couldn't find the words. It didn't matter anyhow. Nothing he could say now would change what had happened on the field of battle. What good would it do to make an enemy out of this man? Besides, Aragorn suddenly felt drained of whatever energy he had recouped during his respite. He ran his hand through his hair and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

Without another word to the newcomers amongst them, Aragorn turned away and walked back the way he had come, back towards his rooms. Perhaps he had overestimated his strength and it was all too soon for him. He could not deal with this yet. He could barely think clearly enough as it was. Legolas still filled his thoughts and he knew that he was next to useless as he was.

Staring after his king as he left, Eomer shrugged again and turned back to Halbarad and his two stern companions. Things had not gone the way he wanted them to when these men had turned up at the Great Gate of the city. He had hoped to prepare Aragorn for this meeting before it happened, get the king on his side and then introduce the new people come amongst them. With numbers so severely depleted following the battle, the Rangers would be most welcome additions to the ranks of the Free Men of Arda. Halbarad did not seem the overly sensitive type, mercifully, and Eomer doubted that his decision as to whether or not to aid them would be overly effected by Aragorn's somewhat unusual introduction.

Nevertheless, he felt the need to apologise. "You will have to excuse our King. In the battle he lost someone very close to him. A father, almost."

Janor walked past them, telling Eomer, "I should go and check on him." His footsteps sounded loud and obvious on the hard marble and he sent a slight hint of a glare in Faramir's direction as he passed the man by. It had not escaped his notice that the Steward had been out of his place sitting on the throne of the king and it irritated him that Faramir had taken advantage of Aragorn's lack of attention over the slip in protocol.

He found Aragorn wandering the halls aimlessly; perhaps lost or perhaps just not knowing what he was aiming for in the first place.

"Aragorn?"

"What was that? An ambush?" Aragorn demanded straight away, whirling around to face the Ranger.

"No, not at all. They arrived at the First Gate this afternoon quite unexpectedly and requested an audience with the rumoured King of Gondor. We knew you were resting so Eomer and Faramir decided to meet with them first, find out what they wanted and then report to you when you woke. He didn't expect you to be up and about so soon."

"I couldn't sleep anymore." It was true. He might have felt exhausted in body and spirit but his mind was restless, as it had been when he had lain down the night before. He didn't think he could stand returning to bed now. "I would like a report on the progress of the clean-up."

"That can be arranged."

"And I want-I want to be taken back to Legolas."

Janor was surprised by the request and made no effort to conceal it. And from the look on his ragged face, Aragorn felt the same. It had hurt to speak the name aloud again so soon. He couldn't quite believe that Legolas was no longer here with him, that he would never hear the disapproving voice of his mentor ever again.

"I can do that for you," said the Ranger softly, laying his good hand against Aragorn's shoulder and guiding him away from the throne room.

Legolas, it turned out was in the same room that Aragorn remembered, although things had been straightened out somewhat and Legolas himself had been cleaned up, albeit not very thoroughly. No doubt the healers had been too busy with needy patients to worry about aesthetics. Janor left him alone after showing him the way, supposing that the king would wish privacy.

Given that he had spent so much time watching Legolas' demise following the battle, Aragorn still found himself startled at the bandages covering the Elf's slim torso decorated with the dark stains of blood. Legolas lay perfectly, unnaturally still. It was strange, seeing somebody with absolutely no sign of life, no gentle movement of the chest, no twitches of sleep, no fluttering of the eyes.

Aragorn made his way slowly over to the bed, trailing his hands along the rough fabric of the blankets. Someone would be along soon to retrieve the bedding, he imagined, maybe even take over the room. Many supplies were needed and would be squandered on a resting place. It was logical but Aragorn felt his chest aching at the notion. Someone would soon move Legolas out of the way to make way for the next victim, as if the Elf was nothing but another soldier struck down by misfortune. But Legolas was not just another victim, Aragorn thought. He was guardian to the king; most valued advisor and friend. And where were the mourners? No orderly line of people queuing to thank him for his decades of service, for helping in the retaking of Minas Tirith, for guiding Mankind towards this moment of victory, for taking down countless Orcs and other Enemies, for standing up to the Shadow in the face of almost impossible odds. It hardly seemed fair. A great warrior of his people and champion of Freedom lost forever and no one even noticed.

Tears rolled down Aragorn's cheeks and he let them fall, uncaring of what his guardian would have said about allowing such emotion to rule. He knelt at the side of the bed and took up Legolas' hand, flinching slightly at the coldness of the flesh.

"I-I don't know what to do," he confessed in a whisper. "I need you to be here to tell me what to do. What am I without your guidance?" Legolas remained unmoving in spite of Aragorn's want for it to be otherwise. "I need you, Legolas. Can you understand that?"

The words came from inside him and he knew that had someone been stood behind him he would have felt embarrassment at the thought of talking to one who could neither respond nor even hear. But it felt liberating to speak them all the same.

"What would you have me do? How can I make this right?" He sighed a heavy sigh and lowered his head in grief. "What should I do now?"

What would Legolas want him to do? Carry on, almost certainly. But how? He didn't know what to do next. Retake Gondor in the name of the United Men; that had always been their mission statement right from when Legolas had left Rivendell and taken them in search of the Rangers. But they had rarely discussed details of what would happen once Gondor was back in allied hands. But Aragorn knew the next big target. They could not stop at Gondor. Sauron would merely regroup in Mordor and march upon the city once again; eradicating the rebellious Men occupying it, taking it back into his own hands and all would be lost. All would have been for nothing.

He reached out his free hand and smoothed back dirty blonde hair. "Tell me what to do, I beg you. Some way, tell me, Legolas. Tell me!" He buried his face in the blanket covering his guardian and wept, long and hard.

To Be Continued…