Forever Afternoon
Chapter Nineteen
Word Count: 4,427
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note: I had thought I had good ideas for this part of the story, but between them being vague and my poor execution of them, it was much harder to do this than I'd hoped. I was hoping to resolve all of The Two Towers by the end of this chapter, but it did not work that way.

Should only need one more, though. Things will be that much closer to a resolution, and that is good for everyone.

I have to apologize for the many typos in the last chapter. The new tablet sneaks word changes in on me, I swear.

Contemplation before Combat

"You seem weary again, mellon-nín," Estel said, and Legolas forced a smile. He did not want to admit to fatigue, though he knew that they all suffered from it. Their hunt for the hobbits had been long and tiring. They had not stopped for rest or food, and now they had started another march, one to the fortress of Helm's Deep.

"You should be wearier than I am," Legolas told him, "being only a man."

"I am no mere man," Estel objected. The words were true—the ranger was far from ordinary, and not only because the blood of kings flowed through his veins. Legolas knew of no other man like him. He was a true friend, one that could be called gwador. He had nobility in him, not just in blood but in character and nature.

"That is true, but you are still not an elf, and you must be wearier than I."

"The orcs may assume that a man is weaker than anyone else in the party when elves are present, but you know that is not the case. I am not of the firstborn, but I can fight almost as well as one—some might say I can do better."

Legolas nodded. "Well you fight as you always have. I know this. I have trained with you and fought beside you. I do not doubt your prowess."

"Only my stamina?"

"Perhaps it is your attention that concerns me. It would seem that someone seeks to have it," Legolas said, and Estel frowned slightly. Could it be that the ranger had not noticed the affection that he seemed to have gained? He was hope in a dark time, and when one appeared as hope, one risked becoming more than that to all who knew him.

"What do you mean?"

"I think you have gained an admirer, and I do not mean Gimli."

Estel grimaced. "I do not think that we should discuss this. It is not appropriate."

Legolas did not much care for their original topic, but he did not want to embarrass the lady by speaking of her growing and unreciprocated affections. "You should put a stop to it. You know that. If your heart belongs to Arwen, as you believe it does, then you do her no kindness by allowing this to continue."

"She smiles at Gimli, too. You assume too much."

Legolas did not believe he did. He might know little of love himself, but he was still aware of it when he saw it, and he had seen many cases of it over many centuries. Estel could pretend ignorance of her emotions—that was the simpler course for him, but not for her. Were she like Eruaistaniel, she could suffer greatly for a love that was never to be, and Legolas wished that on no one.

"You have done well to try and divert me from the subject, but I would speak to you about your condition. I am not ignorant of the ways of elves, Legolas. I know how it is for you in grief, and you have had so much of it lately—I cannot help my concern."

"I have had my spirits buoyed as well. Gimli and I have traded insults, but we also challenge each other in ways that we both need," Legolas said. He needed the dwarf's companionship, more than he would ever have thought possible. They were not friends the same way that he was with Estel, but he did not need the same friendship, no under these circumstances.

"Yet you seem lower in spirits again, despite what you said in the forest of Fangorn, despite Mithrandir's return and our rescue of Rohan's king from Saruman's treachery."

Legolas let out a breath. "I fear I have been foolish. I know that I should be happy—pleased, even—that we were reunited with Mithrandir, if only for a short while, but I confess... When the trees told me that a gildin had passed through, when I added that to Galadriel's words, I assumed that the gildin was something else. Someone else."

Estel rubbed at his forehead, more tired than he would admit. "Someone else? Was not gildin the name that Mithrandir used?"

"Yes, it was, but not for himself," Legolas told him. He should not say this—he might anger Estel all over again when they could not be permitted such division—but he did not wish to lie. "Gildin is Mithrandir's name for Varyar. He gave it to him when we were both elflings."

Estel grimaced. "You thought the trees were telling you that Firyavaryar was alive."

"Yes."

"And the pain is fresh again?"

"Yes."

"I am truly sorry. Were it possible to take away that pain, you know that I would gladly do so," Estel told him, putting a hand on Legolas' arm. "I would bring him back for you were that possible. I swear it."

"I know. You are a true friend."

"Orthanc."

Firyavaryar thought the assassin might use the word for a curse from now on, and he was not certain that he could disagree. This was far from what he had expected, but then he had spent most of that council in and out of fugues and did not remember much of what Mithrandir had said during his discussion of Isengard.

"We will not get close to the tower, not with that army between us and it."

Varyar nodded. "That is true, but we are not the focus of that army. It does not march toward us."

Nostalion grunted. "That does not mean that it will not mean death for any that it marches toward. In such a number, they will slaughter any they come across. The edain of Rohan... They will die."

Varyar studied the army, losing count of the rows and rows of Uruk-hai that stretched before them. He had seen legions of orcs before, and he had fought some, but never in so great a number. He had never seen such a force, not in his time with Ogol or with Draugminaion.

"You could poison the ground. It might make them all fall with it. Those caverns beneath the tower would help it collapse, and much as Ogol's forces were defeated, this army would meet its end."

"Yes," Varyar agreed, for he had been close to the possibility of that act, but he did not know. "I would have to be able to get in near them to do it, and while I know I carry the shadow within me, I do not know that it is enough to fool them into thinking that I am not an elf, not the enemy."

Nostalion nodded. "It would be difficult, and they could overwhelm you before you were close enough to do what was necessary. Even if I were to distract them, it would not be enough."

Firyavaryar looked at his gwador. For all that he trusted in the assassin's skill, he knew that the only thing Nostalion would accomplish as a distraction was his own death. "I do not think that any of it will work. We cannot take on that force alone. This fight... It is not ours."

Nostalion turned toward him. "You would make it ours if you could find the means to do so."

"I? What do I care for the concerns of the edain? They are not mine. Every time we mix with edain has become a disaster. No, let them fall. I know nothing of the men of Rohan, nor do I care to know of them. I am not a hero. I am not Legolas. I have no interest in befriending them."

"They will march for Helm's Deep."

"The last fortress of men. Yes. That is to be expected," Varyar agreed. He could see the reasoning behind sending a force there, but even in so great a number, would the wizard's plan succeed? "They cannot hope to breach the wall through brute force alone. Even this army will fall if pounded against the same stone long enough. If that is the plan, if that is where he intends to send them, then he must plan for more than that."

"If this were Ogol, what would he do?"

"Ogol would not attack like this. Ogol worked from the shadows, in deception and trickery, hiding what he was. He would..." Varyar closed his eyes and cursed, shaking his head and refusing to accept that thought. It was not possible. He would not believe that was happening. Not now.

"What? Varyar, what would he do?"

"He would disguise himself as one of them, as an old man, perhaps, and he would be with them, hidden so that he could work from inside. He would destroy them even as they worked to save themselves. That is the kind of treachery that he employs."

Nostalion studied him. "Is that what you believe that Ogol has done?"

"Ogol is dead. He has to be dead. None of this is worth it if he did not die," Varyar said, his eyes going dark as he spoke. He did not know if Ogol could have infiltrated the Rohirrim, but he did not want to believe it. If that sorcerer were with them, they would not survive.

"Do we go for Saruman or do we go for his army?"

"We made this choice before."

"And last time we chose the wizard, but the decision from before does not necessarily stand. We need to know if this is the same sorcerer as the one that tortured you—and if he would do as you say, if he has found a way to disguise himself among them—or we can stop part of that force."

Firyavaryar looked up at the tower, frowning as he did. He did not know, even with the force marching away, if they could get close enough for him to see Saruman's face and know that he was not Ogol. He would need to be face-to-face with the wizard, and that was almost certain to end in their deaths even if Saruman was not Ogol.

"Our chance of survival is poor regardless of our choice."

Nostalion shook his head. "We can turn around at any time. We can look away from this and let them handle their own fate. This is not our fight. It never was. You are the one seeking a redemption that you do not believe you can ever have, but if you cannot have it, why look for it here?"

That, Varyar feared, he could not answer.

"This is Edoras? This is the great hall of the Rohan king?"

"It looks rather like a tavern to me," Alassë said, shaking her head in disgust as she shifted Thenidriel in her arms and looked around at the empty hall. She frowned. "Where is everyone? Even for the edain, this is strange."

"In times of trouble, the people of Rohan go to Helm's Deep," Sérëdhiel told them, pushing back her cloak and looking around. She did not want to be here, and their journey through the empty village surrounding the king's hall was unsettling—that was the only reason her stomach was upset, even if she would normally have argued that she did not panic in such a way. She was not pregnant, and she refused to accept that as a possibility no matter what Alassë said. That was a fear that she did not need, not in these dark and uncertain times.

"I suppose that is better," Eruaistaniel said. This way we do not have to worry about the edain while we are here, and we can hope that they did survive."

"Can you truly want them to be alive?" Alassë asked. "After what they did to Turvuin, what they did to Nostalion and Firyavaryar, what they would have done to me, what they did to you—"

"I cannot condemn them all for what a few did, even if I still find myself fearing all of them," Eruaistaniel answered. She lowered her head. "This place unsettles me. I do not know that we should remain here, even if we do expect Varyar and Nostalion to come."

"We are staying for at least one night," Idhrenion said. "We are all tired, and I do not want to drag my daughter anywhere else. I am—I would like to be able to give her a true home. She deserves one."

"We all do, little brother," Sérëdhiel told him. She did not believe that they had ever deserved this nomadic fate. They should have been able to have a home, to be left in peace. They should not have had to fear Ogol or Meligur. They would not know distrust and fear of the edain. Varyar would not suffer as a walking plague nor her Nostalion be forced to track in an unnatural way.

"We should find a place to rest, then."

"If they left in a hurry, there may be some food here that will spoil," Sérëdhiel said. "It would be better for us to use it rather than let it go to waste."

"I will go look," Eruaistaniel offered, and Sérëdhiel smiled at her. She was glad to see her friend improving despite their circumstances. Eruaistaniel's broken spirit did seem to be mending. Perhaps the attention of the twins had done more to aid her than anyone would have expected. She did not know if it was that or just the passage of time, but she was glad of it nevertheless.

"Come with me," Idhrenion told Alassë, taking hold of her arm. She gave him a look, but he smiled, guiding her and the baby toward another room, leaving Sérëdhiel alone in the main hall.

She sat down on the nearest bench, closing her eyes. Nostalion, you are late, and if you do not come soon and l am pregnant, I will kill you myself, even if I have to drag you back from Mandos' halls to do it. You do not get to leave one now.

She shook her head. How had it come to this? She hadn't liked or trusted Nostalion when she first met him.

"Sérëdhiel."

She lifted her head, staring up at her brother's face. She almost did not know him, so altered was his appearance, but that was his voice and his face. She did not know what happened to his eyes—she could guess his hair had been shorn like that to humiliate him, but his eyes... "Varyar. You are alive. We almost started to believe that you were gone."

"I almost was," he said, and she ran over to embrace him, but he stepped away from her. "You cannot touch me. I... My skin is poison."

"You are fully clothed," she said, almost not caring what happened to her as long as she could hold her brother again. She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him. We missed you. Needed you. Love you."

"You could have died."

"We were dying every day while you were gone in so many small ways. This was no safe haven."

Varyar shook his head. "I swear, Nostalion, if you go back to serving Meligur, I will kill you myself."

She looked up, meeting the intense stare of a dark-haired elf with a scar marring his face. She shuddered, drawing closer to her brother, wanting to feel safe again.

She almost wished she had her husband's unpleasant gift, wished she could know where he and Varyar were. She needed to know they were coming back alive, but she had no such guarantee.

"You are quiet, even for an elf princeling."

Legolas lifted his head, looking up at the dwarf. He had not wanted to take away from the preparations for battle, but he did not know that he could have gone into the fight without a few moments for himself. He needed time to think, time to put away the memories and emotions that wanted to distract him from what was ahead. It was difficult, he thought, to separate from the past, perhaps more so for an elf, who lived so long that some past centuries were like yesterday.

"Everyone prepares for battle in a different way. I have chosen silence."

"Silence? You are a daft elf, that's for sure. You're thousands of years old, aren't you? You know more of battle than any of this lot, and yet you say nothing." Gimli looked like he might shove him. "You are a fool."

"My experience of the battlefield is less than any of theirs," Legolas disagreed. "Yes, I have spent most of my life patrolling my father's borders, I have fought many orcs, survived many ambushes, but this is not the same. This is the defense of a keep. It is not my place to advise anyone in such a battle."

The dwarf frowned at him, leaning over to examine Legolas' ear. "Are you certain you're an elf?"

"Yes," Legolas answered, swatting the dwarf's hand away from the sensitive tip of his ear. "And you were a moment ago."

Gimli grunted. "Never known an elf not to give plenty of advice—never known one to be humble, either."

"I have never known a dwarf who was humble, either, and that has not changed," Legolas said, grinning as the dwarf frowned. He laughed, and after a moment of fighting a smile, Gimli joined him.

"Annoying elf."

"Special dwarf."

"Special?"

Legolas nodded, though the memory that prompted his words was bittersweet.

"So... you are my friend? You just weren't willing to say you are because you're possibly Avari?" Legolas asked, though he thought he already had that answer. He didn't need it anymore. He shook his head. "It does not matter if you are Avari. What matters is that you have been a friend to me ever since you pretended to kill that orc."

"Pretended? What, you think that was some kind of ruse to gain your trust?"

"No," Legolas insisted immediately. "I don't. I would never think that. I was just teasing you. That's all. Don't you know when I'm teasing you yet? Or... Has someone else accused you of doing that? They truly believe you tricked me into being your friend?"

"I've heard a few rumors, yes."

"Well, they're wrong. I don't like just everyone that helps me fight orcs. You are different. No one tricks me into being friends, either. I'll be friends with anyone I want to be friends with, not who I'm told to be friends with."

"Be careful. Keep talking like that, and you'll end up friends with a dwarf next."

Legolas laughed. "I don't think that will happen. It would have to be a very special dwarf."

"I am no special elf."

"I don't need a special elf. I need a friend."

"Then you have one." Varyar shook his head. "No, you have three."

"Three?"

"Sérëdhiel, Idhrenion, and me."

Varyar had promised friendship that day—he had given it, that was not the problem, but Ogol and fear had chased him away, forcing him to fulfill that promise by staying away rather than remaining close like Legolas had wanted. Still, he had been a child who wanted nothing more than that friend, and Varyar's assurance that he had three had felt like a perfect dream.

"Someone told me that with the way I chose my companions, I would end up friends with a dwarf next. I said it would take a special dwarf. Therefore you must be a very special dwarf, Gimli, son of Glóin."

"And what is wrong with your choice of companions?" Gimli demanded, though he seemed pleased to be considered special, perhaps even to be Legolas' friend.

"Well, the one who said it was an Avari." Legolas did not think the dwarf understood the term. It was not something the elves were proud of, not something they shared with others, and certainly not dwarves. "His grandparents—or perhaps great-grandparents—did not accept the offer of the Valar. They rejected the journey. Some Avari served Melkor—Morgoth—and the dark lord Sauron. Many assume that all Avari serve the shadow."

"Not you. Not a silly elf who mourns the one that betrayed him."

Legolas grimaced. That hurt more than Gimli could know. "Firyavaryar might have been Avari. He might have betrayed me. He was still my friend."

"I don't think I'd trust your choice of friends."

"Even when I call you one of them?"

Gimli huffed. He shook his head. "Only a fool would try and understand the workings of your mind, laddie. I suppose next I will find you telling me you're not helping with the preparations because you're down here mourning him."

"Mithrandir called him gildin," Legolas said. He sighed. "My small spark of hope was not for Mithrandir. It was for Varyar. And no matter how foolish I was for that, I was not being foolish in trying to make peace with those feelings before the battle."

Gimli let out a breath, nodding in thought. "Aye. Best to settle those matters before a fight."

Legolas smiled, but before he could thank the dwarf for his understanding, Gimli spoke again. "Especially if you expect to beat my count."

"Last time you chose the wizard."

"I did. The argument there was that if we did not go for the wizard, he would just send another army," Varyar said. His eyes returned to the horde in front of them. He could not count their number, but he knew it was thousands, and if Saruman sent them, then he expected to be able to breach the fortress somehow. Rohan might have an army that could repel them, one that could hold the keep, but it might not be enough. Saruman had a plan. If he was Ogol, then he was preparing that betrayal from within. If not, then something these Uruk-hai now carried was to give them entry.

"He would not have to, not when that army already marches toward them."

"Agreed. No need for further armies exists when one legion is expected to kill them all."

"You also said that Ogol would be among them. Your answer would lie there, perhaps easier to find than it would be to broach the tower," Nostalion told him, looking back at Orthanc.

"Assuming that we could get past that army and convince them to let us into Helm's Deep, which is an assumption that we should not make. Avari are seldom welcome, especially among the edain."

"Your friend is there. You would gain passage."

Firyavaryar frowned. He blinked a few times, thinking that he must have misheard the tracker. "You do not have a map. You do not know where people are on a map, so you cannot say that Legolas is in Helm's Deep—"

"No, I cannot, but I can see where they march—you guessed it yourself—and I know where Legolas is. They march toward him."

Varyar glared at him. "That is what you meant when you said that I would make it my fight."

"Yes."

Varyar shook his head. He did not want this fight—he had not wanted any of them—but he knew that he would take it. He had little choice, not if he wanted to redeem himself, and he liked it little, but he knew what must be done. "We have to find a way of reducing that number."

"You could ask your new friend."

"The ent? Are you insane?" Varyar demanded. He shook his head. "No, do not answer that. I know you are, but I do not think that the ents will fight with us. Even if I could find the one I woke earlier and get him to do something besides make me sing, the rest of them might not agree. It would take too long to find and convince even the one. We must act quickly—and find a way that does not get us slaughtered in the process."

"Do you care if you live?"

"Not particularly, but I do care about leaving my family unprotected. We are not both allowed to die. You know this. If I die, you have to go back to my sister and lead them on."

"She would not forgive me for allowing you to die."

"Yes, she would. Eventually. You have as much of her heart as I do," Varyar insisted. He knew that much. His sister would never have married anyone she did not love, and she was devoted to those she loved, all of them. She had more room in her heart than others, able to share her affection with more than her family—Firyavaryar had only one person outside of the family he cared for, Legolas, and arguably, he was as much gwador as Nostalion, even if he did not marry Varyar's sister.

"Even so, I have no interest in letting you die. What is your plan?"

"Why do I do all the planning? I thought you were a masterful assassin, one that could get in to any target, escape unnoticed, and be on the next target before the body was found," Varyar said, narrowing his gaze at Nostalion with suspicion. "When did I become the leader? The one who makes all the decisions?"

"When you saved my life."

"You saved mine as well. We are equal."

"We are not equal," Nostalion said, and Varyar frowned, not wanting to let his gwador go on thinking that way, but knowing that they could not argue now. The army marched on, and they had to act now to stop it, now or not at all.

"We might be able to draw some of them into the trees," Firyavaryar began, looking toward the forest. He knew that if nothing else, they could keep the Uruk-hai occupied chasing them around through the trees. Or they could arrange an ambush. That might be possible.

"Very well," Nostalion agreed, removing his bow from his back. Firyavaryar watched him prepare the arrow, considering again what he could do to the tip. If he did, perhaps that would be what they needed.

Or he could kill his gwador.

"Do it," Nostalion ordered, and Varyar removed his glove, scraping his finger over the point, ducking down to allow him to take the shot. The arrow flew forward, lodging itself in the neck of an Uruk, causing it to fall forward onto its companions. Cries went through them, and Varyar was pleased to see that the ones the Uruk touched did not rise. It would seem that it worked.

Perhaps too well.

"We have their attention. Run."