"Aragorn." The Ranger rolled to his side in an attempt to evade his brother's voice. The twin only grew louder, and he grabbed Estel's arm to shake gently as he said again, "Aragorn. Wake, muindor."
Reluctantly, the Ranger opened one eye, giving his best glare to the twin, though it had no effect whatsoever on Elladan, it seemed, for the elder Noldo was not looking at the human he was shaking. Instead, Elladan was staring across the room, his face fashioned into deep lines of worry. "What is it, Elladan?"
Elladan smiled sorrowfully down to his young, human brother, telling the Adan, "Legolas fades, Estel. He will pass any moment."
His sleep forgotten in an instant, the human's body tensed, and his fatigued and febrile mind tried to comprehend what Elladan told him. "How do you know?" the Ranger asked, denying the Prince's death to himself, for he was unwilling to believe that the valiant Wood-Elf would leave them. Aragorn sat up in the bed, swung his feet off the edge, and began to argue against the fatalistic assurance the elder Noldo held for Legolas' future.
However, the Adan did not finish his quarrelsome thought, for Elladan turned away from Estel again and faced the opposite side of the room once more. Turning his own head to see at what Elladan was looking, the Ranger found that Elrohir was standing in front of the closed door. With his arms wrapped around his chest, his head hung low, and his face pale, rivulets of tears running down the younger twin's colorless cheeks, Elrohir was enough evidence to Aragorn that Elladan spoke the truth. The twins knew that Legolas was dying soon: Elrohir could feel the Prince as his life was ending.
"What should we do?"
Again, Elladan smiled at the human, telling Estel, "There is nothing that can be done, muindor, except wait, and hope that Legolas does not suffer."
Waiting was not a thing that Aragorn practiced well, nor could he sit by while allowing the Prince to die, not without trying to aid him. "Is there not something that can be done, brother? We can talk to his healers. Surely, they have not the knowledge of herbs as you and Elrohir. We can…"
"Estel," the younger twin whispered firmly from where he stood across the room. "Nothing can be done."
The younger Noldo's gift, his insight into Legolas' suffering, had thus far been a boon to them all. It had aided the twins and Tirn in finding the Prince and Ranger, which had in turn kept Legolas and Estel alive. Elrohir's visions had drawn Legolas back to them when the Wood-Elf had been in the forest, bereft and lost, and without the desire to return.
For Elrohir, the visions were a curse: Aragorn could see this in the grim stoop of the younger twin's shoulders and the cheerless glint of the Noldo's teary eyes. The twin explained, "He is lessening." Elrohir took a step closer before stopping himself, letting his arms fall to his sides, and then giving the Ranger a look identical to Elladan's indulgent, comforting smile, adding, "I do not think he suffers."
Aragorn nodded, and then looked to Elladan for confirmation that the eldest brother was of the same opinion. Elladan was in no better shape than his young brother was, for he appeared just as downtrodden and accepting as Elrohir. Given that the twins shared between them a bond stronger than any that Elrohir could feel with the Prince, it was clear that Elladan was suffering with his twin, that the elder Noldo could both feel Legolas' grief and Elrohir's concomitant woe.
"Where is Jalian?" the Ranger asked when noticing that the mercenary was missing once more.
"He has been escorted back to Laketown," the elder Noldo explained. Alarmed at the idea of the scarred mercenary spending any time with Naiahim, Aragorn prepared to protest but Elladan assured the Ranger, "Only Salneril travels with him."
Elrohir shared a brief glance with his twin. "We thought it best for him to leave. King Thranduil seems to have absolved you of any wrongdoing, but the Wood-Elves have already learned that Jalian was involved with Legolas' disappearance. Jalian would not have been safe here after Legolas dies."
The twin's causal utterance displayed no doubt that Legolas would not last until the morning, just as the King's healer had predicted.
He will die. After all that he has lived through, still Legolas will die.
Feeling the need to be close to the fading Silvan, even should they not be in the Prince's room with him, Aragorn suggested, "Let us not just sit here."
Although it was clear that neither twin wished to interrupt the King or his subjects mourning outside in the hallways of the palace, both brothers acquiesced, and soon they walked through the hallways, where Wood-Elves lined the passageways.
It seems we are not the only ones who desire to be near the Prince.
Some stood in their nightclothes, covered in robes and their hair loose and unadorned. Others were dressed in leather armor and held their bows and quivers in hand, as if they could not be bothered to put them away before attending the impromptu vigil. The Eldar were sitting, standing, kneeling, and all silent as they waited for some word of their Prince.
He stepped carefully over the sleeping form of a small child, who had sprawled out on the carpeted hallway before where his father sat with his back against the stone wall. Doors to chambers along the halls had been opened, their owners accepting the overflow of Wood-Elves into their rooms, where wine was passed, fires burned brightly, but no friendly chattering took place. Save for the intermittent squall of an upset Elfling child, too young to understand the solemnity, nothing broke the eerie silence.
Aragorn had never witnessed such devotion. However, when thinking of for whom this respect and bereavement was intended, the Ranger was not surprised to see it.
"Let us wait here, brother," the younger twin told his two siblings, herding them together towards a bench near Legolas' door where there was enough room for the injured Elladan and sick Aragorn to be seated. Bowing with respect but offering no greeting, a warrior Wood-Elf rose from the end of the bench, moving so that Elrohir could sit as well.
Resting his elbows on his knees, Elrohir bent over, placing his head in his hands. In return, Elladan laid his hand upon his twin's back, trailing his fingers in absent comfort between Elrohir's shoulder blades.
I wonder if it will not be better for Elrohir for Legolas to die, the Ranger thought as he settled in to wait, and then cursed himself for such a selfish idea. He sighed when realizing, If Legolas knew it would be better for Elrohir, he would no doubt pass on willingly just to ease my brother's suffering.
They would all rather the Wood-Elf live, but now that there seemed no hope for Legolas, Aragorn only prayed that the Prince's death would be peaceful, and that he would not be taking Elrohir and Thranduil with him.
In abrupt and clear, dulcet tones, a voice erupted in Legolas' consciousness. The Elf woke to the soft singing of someone nearby. It sang of the river water, of a loving family, and of an Elfling Prince at play. Ada.
Legolas drifted on that sound, his mind buoyed in memory and emotion, and smiled to himself as he slept, until the smell of fire burning in the nearby hearth, of the medicines that were spread over his body, and the clean linen wrapped around his multitude of wounds jarred his memory even more, and he realized he was home.
The sheets were dry under him, the air warm from the fire, and Tirn's medallion, on which were still knotted golden hairs from the sentry's fair head, lay scratchy against his bare chest. He shut out the sound of the lullaby his father was singing to him and focused on these smells and sensations. Ada, he repeated to himself, his mind revolving around the need to speak to his father.
He may have lived this long to see Ament dead, to ensure his father and home's safety, and to help his friends to Mirkwood's palace, but Legolas' duty was not over, for he had much to say to the Elf beside him. Legolas' attempts at speech were no more than the soft murmuring moans of his mouth, which had gone dry despite the water his father now trickled between his chafed lips.
One last task.
The dying Elf only wished to tell his father that he was sorry to be leaving the King alone in Arda, that he would see his Ada again, and most importantly, Legolas did not wish to leave without his father knowing that his son loved him.
But his body was weak, and the words would not come. The Elf could feel his impending demise: it weighed upon him densely, his limbs not merely sluggish or immobile from pain or injury, but lax from a body that had gone too long past its limits, and was now too exhausted to continue. His mind, though aware of his surroundings, was just as overwrought, and he could not seem to concentrate enough to say the words he wished his father to hear.
Prying his eyes open, the Silvan first saw that his father loomed over him. He tried harder to speak, to tell the King of the Ranger, of the twin sons of Elrond, that Jalian had been forgiven, to speak to his father of Tirn's sacrifice, and to know his father would understand why his son was dying, and that the Silvan was ready to depart.
Thranduil leant his ear closer to Legolas' moving lips, as if to capture the words the Silvan could not manage the strength to say. Sighing raggedly, the King expelled a short sob and laid his head lightly on the Prince's chest for a few moments. "I know, my son. I know," the King whispered, rising again and pushing at the tangled hair on Legolas' forehead as he assured the Prince with an affectionate smile, "and I love you as well, Legolas."
And the King did know. Legolas felt his Ada's breath as it ghosted across his cheek, the frayed respirations growing more vocal as the woodland sovereign began to weep once more. The King was saying his goodbyes, and Thranduil knew that Legolas wished to say the same.
Releasing his hold of Legolas' arm for a moment, the King moved from sitting beside the bed to sitting upon it. He could feel the weight of his father as the King shifted closer to Legolas, sliding his arm under the frail Prince's shoulders to draw the young Wood-Elf nearer. Father smiled down at son, and perspicuity passed between them, allaying the last of Legolas' fears.
His father would be fine. Thranduil believed that a King's life was not his own, just as Legolas believed a Prince's life was for his people, not himself. Thranduil had tasks and duties to attend, and the King would neither give Ament and his vile accomplices the pleasure of ensuring Thranduil's death or despair, nor would Legolas' Ada let Eryn Galen flounder without a leader to guide her.
As the King pressed his forehead to the Prince's, Legolas closed his eyes and smiled, keeping the image of his loving father in his mind. The cool taste of the fresh water he had been given lingered on his tongue, until he could taste it no longer, for his breathing became more shallow, and the effort to concentrate even on such a simple thing became too hard for the Silvan. But Legolas could feel his father beside him, though this too seemed distant, for his muscles were languid and growing evermore numbed. No longer scratchy against his chest, the medallion sat heavy upon him, weighing his struggling breast down, as the effort to breathe became toil too great. The scent of his father and the fresh air bringing the fragrant smell of the forest, clean with dew from the coming morning, came to him in through the vent shafts – until this, too, did he lose with his last inhale.
Legolas was home, his duty over. He could die now.
The Wood-Elf's consciousness faded, but it was not the undulating, sorrowful tune of his grieving faer to which Legolas listened as his mind withered, but to the gentle wind that blew outside, rustling the leaves and blowing between the trees in the woods below. Legolas could hear the lifesong of the forest, could feel the trees as they mourned their Prince's death, and sensed his wooded home's farewell to him.
Nothing strayed from Ilúvatar's song. No voice in this mellifluous symphony was silenced forever.
The soft, lilting tenor of his father, singing the very same berceuse the Prince's mother had sung to him when he was but a babe, overwhelmed Legolas' senses. He felt to be drowning in the comfort and paternal love his father's voice held. With his eyes closed, his broken body still, his chest no longer rising, and his every thought and worry now quieted, Legolas only listened, for it was all he could do. He smiled at such beauty, and was glad to have been a part of it, if only for a short moment of the usual long life of an immortal.
The Wood-Elf receded into the welcoming depths of death calmly, having never felt as tranquil as he did then, feeling his heart beating slower, softer in his chest, until the beating finally ceased, and there was no pain, no despair, and no time for him any longer.