Forever Afternoon
Chapter Twenty-Two
Word Count: 3,086
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note: I actually managed to put together this chapter rather quickly. I am glad, though I admit that is in part because a couple of the scenes are very heavily influenced by the book. they were almost easy. That, and I do want to wrap this up if I can. Then I can stop feeling as guilty about it. I hope.

Finding Kinsmen

"Explain this to me," Firyavaryar said, not looking back but knowing that the assassin was not far behind him. He had acquired a shadow in his escape from Draugminaion, and he did not think he would lose it before the century was over. "Why does your family always turn against itself?"

He was given silence in answer, not even so much as a grunt, and he stopped, leaning against the wall. His eyes went to his hand, to the glove that his sister had made for him, trying not to cry as she gave them to him.

"They do not feel like your hands," Sérëdhiel whispered, her throat closing up near the end of her speech. "They will never feel like your hands."

"If they work, I will still be able to touch you," he reminded her quietly. He pulled the glove over his hand, and she stepped forward, right into the glove. He waited, almost afraid to hope, but she was not harmed by his touch, not with the gloves on. Her eyes brightened. "Do not cry, Sérëdhiel. I am—I have been altered, but I have not changed so much as to forget my family. I will get us out of here. We will leave soon."

"Varyar, after what you have suffered, I would not ask this, but they have taken Eruaistaniel," Sérëdhiel began, looking up at him. "I think they gave her to slave traders, but I do not know. I only know that she was my friend, one of only two here that were kind to us, and I cannot leave her to that fate. If I knew how to find her—"

"Nostalion does."

"Alassë already asked. He will not help."

"Yes, he will," Varyar said coldly, turning away from his sister. He knew how he would make the assassin help, and he was not afraid of Nostalion like most of the elves here. "Thank you for the gloves. I will need them."

Firyavaryar flexed his fingers inside the glove. That was still strange, but he was becoming accustomed to wearing them. He could almost feel normal again, could almost forget sometimes that he wore them.

He turned back to face Nostalion. "You can choose to deny it, but all I have seen is that your family is willing to kill each other. No, they are cowards who let others kill for them. Turvuin. Alassë. You. Now Eruaistaniel. Why do they want all of you dead?"

"They do not."

Varyar looked at him. "Oh, you are of use, I suppose, but if they could not use you, they would let you die. They let the slavers have you because you disobeyed them, and they will do so again. Why do you still work for them?"

"They are family."

"No," Varyar said, shaking his head. "You do not know what family is. You do not know Idhrenion's books and endless questions. You do not know holding him in the darkness when he asks for our parents but they are dead and have been for centuries. You do not know what it is to see Sérëdhiel smile, to hear her sing, to be healed by her gentle touch. You do not know how it is to be the one who holds her when her nightmares return. You do not know what it is to meet a friend that you are so close to that it is as though you know his pain and he knows yours as well. To find a brother in a stranger—no, you would never understand that."

Nostalion caught his arm. "Is your memory so flawed that you forgot what you told me during our escape?"

"I was feverish. I remember little."

"You called me gwador," Nostalion said, and Varyar stared at him, uncertain if he believed that or not. Had he lied to convince Nostalion to help him escape? Had he mistaken the assassin for someone else? Did he think, in some strange delirium, that Nostalion was Legolas?

He studied the other elf. "It matters little if I made that choice if you did not. I can honor my part, but if you do not, then I hope you will at least remember that you are a cousin."

An elleth's scream answered before Nostalion could, and his expression turned dark. He shook his head. "No, now I am an assassin. Later, perhaps, I can be a cousin, but first I will kill any who harmed her."

"I suppose it is fitting, then," Varyar said, removing his glove, "that you walk with death itself beside you."

Aragorn did not dare look back at anyone as they rode toward where they intended to make camp. He did not know how to do what Legolas advised and speak to Éowyn. He had not done anything—not that he could think of—to deserve the affection that she gave him, and he did not want to hurt her in telling her that it was something that could never be. She did not need that pain, nor did he want to discourage her before their next trial. She would need her strength for the days to come.

He thought that Legolas was disappointed with him, and he did not enjoy disappointing his friend—not after all they had been through trying to restore their friendship after Firyavaryar's death. He did not want to lose that again, but with so little time to spend together and so much battle, so much loss, so many things that they could not discuss, he thought it was happening again, that their friendship was slipping away from them.

Legolas was much closer to Gimli now, and Aragorn sometimes thought he would be always from now on. He supposed that was a foolish fear, something that had no place in his mind as he rode to war. He should be thinking of things like how they could possibly gather enough troops to face Sauron, about what would happen if they did win, what might happen if Frodo could not destroy the ring.

It seemed that even would-be kings were fools, and his friendship with Legolas remained at the front of his mind.

"My lord," a rider from the back of the line called, rushing up toward Théoden, his stead near exhaustion by the sudden burst of speed demanded of it. "There are riders coming up behind us, riding fast. They will overtake us soon."

"Stop the riders," the king ordered, turning to face their pursuers. Aragorn looked to Legolas, wondering if his elf eyes knew more of the threat upon them than he did. He did not want to lose any riders on the way to their camp. "Form a line. We will face what comes at us and defeat it. Stand strong, riders of Rohan."

Aragorn smiled grimly. Even at the darkest of times, Théoden did seem to make inspiring speeches seem easy. He hoped that he could manage half as well if he had to make them as king. It seemed different, thinking of the speeches he had given before and what he might do in the future. So much would change when he became king of Gondor.

"Halt!" Éomer called as their pursuers drew nearer. "Who rides in Rohan? This is the realm of Théoden the king, and none ride here without his leave."

"You are the host of Théoden, then? That is welcome news. I had begun to fear that we had made a mistake in listening to the one who sent us this way to find you," a familiar voice called out, and Aragorn felt himself smiling with relief. "I am Halbarad, ranger of the north. We have come seeking Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Legolas Greenleaf, who we were told were with Théoden and his company."

"I am here—we are both here—and you are most welcome," Aragorn said, rushing forward to greet his friends and family. "Elladan! Elrohir! I did not think that you would come. This is a wonderful surprise, but how—why are you here?"

"Oh, do not be absurd, little brother. Someone must save you from the danger you now ride toward, and that has always been our responsibility," Elladan told him, and he grimaced. Halbarad actually smiled.

"There are thirty with us," Halbarad reported, looking back at his riders. "That was all that could be gathered in haste. We rode as swiftly as we could when your summons came."

Aragorn frowned. "I did not summon you, only in wish. My thoughts often turned toward you, yet I sent no word. You will have to tell us how you got it—and how you found us—but that must wait. We must continue our ride, if the king agrees."

Théoden nodded. "If these kinsmen of yours are anything like you in battle, then we have found a great strength this night, and I am glad to have it with us. Let us ride."

Legolas watched the dawn, glad of the absence of red in the sky, of death. Perhaps this was the return of hope, heralded by the arrival of the twins and the Dúnedain, but he did not know that he was as comforted by their coming as he should have been. He thought that the Rohirrim took it as a portent of good things, reinforcements desperately needed for the coming battle, but he did not know that he felt the same, even though he called Elrohir and Elladan friends and knew the prowess of Dúnedain rangers in combat.

"Out with it, you pointy eared sourpuss. What's got you this morning?"

Legolas frowned, looking over at Gimli. In all the time they had traveled together, he had not known the dwarf to greet the dawn with anything close to pleasantness. "Do you assume me to be troubled, then, Gimli?"

"Yes, I do, for I know that look on your face well by now, elf. Don't bother trying to hide it. You may as well admit what's chafing your armor."

Legolas glanced at his tunic and back at the dwarf. Gimli grunted. "It's an expression."

"So it is," Legolas agreed, forcing a slight smile. "It is not a great thing. I am not a Dúnedain, nor have I ever fought that closely with them as Elladan and Elrohir have done—"

"But they are your friends and asked for you when they found us, yet you are not a part of their counsels," Gimli observed sagely. "Why do you suppose that is?"

Legolas grimaced. "I have two reasons. I like neither of them."

"What reasons?" The dwarf prodded, sitting down next to him. "And don't think you can fool me, laddie. I know when you're lying."

That was true of all his friends, Legolas thought, as he was rather a poor liar. He nodded, taking in a breath and letting it out. "I can only surmise that whatever news they brought Estel is bad—or perhaps they feel I will disagree with whatever decision they are discussing with them."

Gimli grunted. "You don't always agree with Aragorn. Why hide anything from you?"

"I do not know," Legolas admitted, shaking his head. He did not understand why his friend would exclude him, but there must be a reason. Legolas refused to believe that Estel acted without cause. Why would he risk damaging their friendship again? Had they not both agreed that they never wanted it to fall into the state it had been after Varyar's death?

Then why was this happening? What was Legolas not allowed to know?

Gimli grunted. "Maybe we should wake the hobbit. He's going miss a lot of what comes later, so he may as well know now what he can."

Legolas nodded, letting the dwarf go to rouse their other companion. He was not ready to be social. It was unlike him to charge into the company of others, but the longer Estel's council with the Dúnedain went on without him, the more tempted he became to walk into their midst and demand answers. The twins should give him them.

"Come along, Master Merridoc," Gimli said, herding the hobbit toward Legolas. "It wasn't much of a rest, I know, but we're all going to be getting back on the horses soon enough, you just watch. After Aragorn finishes talking to his kin, then I expect we'll hear the order given to mount the foul beasts again."

"Some of them are so stern," Merry said, trying to get a better look at the newcomers, and Legolas smiled down at him. "I wonder why some of them don't take off their cloaks at all, though. Why have those men come? Have you heard yet?"

"They said they got word of Aragorn's need for them," Gimli said. He glanced at Legolas. "It is where that message comes from, that is what is uncertain. They might have told him by now, but we do not know. I suppose it must have been Gandalf that sent word of Aragorn's need."

"No, I think it was Galadriel," Legolas said. He did not know what made him so certain of that, but he felt sure she had been the one to send that message. It was the other part that concerned him—was it also the lady who had sent the Dúnedain to them here?

"Yes, it must have been her," Gimli agreed. "The Lady of the Wood could read hearts and desires. Why did we not wish for some of our own kinsfolk, Legolas? Imagine what a lot of dwarves could do against those mindless rabble of Sauron."

Legolas tried to smile for his friend's assertion, but he could not manage it. He lowered his head, heart heavy once more. "I do not think that any would come—that any could. They have no need to march to war, not when it already marches on their own lands."

"Aye," Gimli agreed, his tone somber. "None could be spared."

Perhaps not, Legolas thought, though he wondered where Nostalion and the others were, since they were not a part of the war, and he would have asked the lady for the comfort of those friends if he could have—not that he would risk Thenidriel, but he would see the others if he could.

He would want to see Firyavaryar most of all.

"I do not understand," Aragorn began as he faced the group of his rangers, his kinsmen, and the twins. They were welcome, and he would not begrudge them coming, not for a moment. He did not want to turn them away—could not turn them away—but he did not understand why they were here, how they had known of his need for them, or how they had found the riders of Rohan when they did. "How did this happen?"

"We got word," Halbarad said. He looked to Elrohir and Elladan. "Perhaps it would be best to let your brothers tell you."

Aragorn frowned. He did not know that he liked this. What were they keeping from him? "Why do you not wish to tell me?"

"We do carry a message for you from Ada," Elladan began, exchanging a look with his brother. "He told us to remind you that when you are in haste... remember the paths of the dead."

"The paths of the dead? That is not a path I would take unless there was no alternative—any kind of haste has to be tempered with the caution of what lies down that path."

"Caution? What do you know of caution?"

Aragorn turned, looking back to find the ranger that had spoken. A comment that rash belonged to someone young, someone more like Condir, and yet he did not think that it was the youngest ranger who had said it. "I am—"

"We know that you can be quite impulsive, especially when you are with us or with Legolas, and you cannot deny that, gwador-nín," Elladan said. "Were this only a few decades ago, I do not think we would have heard any hesitation from you. No risk was too great, no task too foolish. We would be chasing you and Legolas into the depths of Moria or worse."

"No. Not Moria," Aragorn said, wondering if he had heard the echo that he thought he had. "Legolas hates being underground, and he did not go into Moria lightly."

"That does not mean that he would not have gone there if that was what you wanted," Elrohir reminded him, and Aragorn could not deny it. Legolas was willing to do far too much for his friends.

"Are you here to tell me I should take the paths—and not let him come with me? Should I bar Gimli as well? Do I even have such authority? As yet, I have no kingdom. I would have to ask for leave from King Théoden, and while I imagine he will grant it, all would think me mad for choosing such a folly."

"What Legolas decides is his own course, which is something we have told you before," Elladan said. He shook his head. "I believe Ada thinks you must go to the paths of the dead and fulfill the prophecy, that it is a part of you becoming king. We do not care for it much, little brother, for it is a great risk and you have always been prone to injury, but it is quite possible that you have no other choice."

"No other choice," Aragorn said, shaking his head. He did not like this option. "There are many other choices. We already know we must go to war. It does us no good to rush to our deaths down a path that guarantees it."

"The prophecy—"

"Only fools trust prophecy," a voice cut in, low and harsh. "If you wish to trust all to fate and prophecy and the Valar, then sit and do nothing—they will achieve it all. If you want to be any kind of master over your own destiny, then choose."

Aragorn whirled, turning toward the ranger who had spoken, knowing that voice was wrong somehow. The shadowed hood felt sinister, and he did not understand. How could anyone have fooled not only his rangers but also his elven brothers? "Who are you?"

"Amusing, echil. I am glad I am so easily forgotten. Then again, I am supposed to be dead."

"Firyavaryar?"