Forever Afternoon
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Word Count: 4,875
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note: It is both interesting and disappointing to me that this section took so long to write. It's interesting because one of the first ideas I had for the sequel to Storms in Middle Earth was the scene at the end of this chapter, at the black gate, which arose when my friends were mocking how the movie version showed the crumbling of Mordor when the ring was destroyed. It is disappointing because while I've had it in mind almost from the beginning, it was not only a struggle to write, it was a struggle to get to, because I have had so much go wrong, been sick so many times, and lost inspiration and confidence so many times along the way that I didn't know that I would ever get to it. I can't say that this has been at all easy, and even now, I am disappointed because it does not measure up to all I hoped for when I started the story. Action sequences continue to be my weakness. Still, this is part of what the story was meant to be, and it is that much closer to a resolution, and that is good, at least, it being nearer completion.

Before the Black Gate

"Is it what you saw in your vision?" Nostalion asked, studying the aftermath of the battle with shadowed eyes. Firyavaryar did not know what his gwador was thinking, nor did he much want to know. His mind was dark enough without adding any of the assassin's thoughts to his own.

"It would like to be," Varyar answered, looking out at the many dead scattered across the field. He had seen death before, but this battle was not like others. It would be talked about in legends for centuries to come, the defeat of Sauron's forces and the deliverance of the white city, the rise of the king of Gondor. "It is not."

"Are you speaking that way to convince yourself or me?"

"I could convince no one if I could not convince myself."

Nostalion nodded. "That is true, but I do not know that you have convinced yourself."

"If I allow myself to believe that this is the field of death that I saw in the palantír, then I must assume that it is accurate in predicting the future. I must accept that there is a fate set before me and everyone else, and that fate is inevitable. That means that what I choose matters little, if at all. I have done things I regret, Nostalion, but if my fate was set from my birth, if everyone's was, then what is the point of any of those terrible choices I made? What is the value of any kind of sacrifice?"

"There is none," Nostalion answered, succinct, and Varyar turned his eyes away from the carnage. He had his part in those deaths, and he knew that he could be doing more. His poison would help clear the fields of the enemy without the need of burning the corpses, and yet he found himself unwilling to aid the victors in that way. "How long will it be before your sister finds us?"

Firyavaryar closed his eyes. "It depends on how much she and Alassë argue, I suppose. They may be faster if they have not managed to elude the onod, since he would carry them, and yet I hope that they will be delayed."

"You wish to spare them the sight of this?"

Varyar snorted. "This? No. This waste is... unpleasant, but I do not know that it would harm them to see it. Even Eruaistaniel could tolerate it, I believe. I suppose Thenidriel is too young to see it, but she is also not going to understand what it is that she sees, nor will she recall it."

"Yet you want them to stay away."

"You are not a fool," Firyavaryar said, aware of the other elf's narrowed eyes. "You know this war is not over. This battle is only one part of it. The ring still exists, Sauron still lives, and we are all too close to the shadow."

Nostalion looked toward Mordor. "That is why you fear using your poison to clear these bodies."

"Would you look for the ring-bearer? Or even my sister?"

"No."

Firyavaryar nodded. "It is the same for me, though I do not doubt that they will want to call upon you for your talent if they manage to find you. As it is, we are unnoticed. Too many wounded, too many dead, too many other thoughts to occupy those that would ask it of you."

"That will not last. Sauron has two choices: set another attack against those already weakened and wounded—though he may not because he has suffered loses here—or wait. If he waits, he may cause these fools to think they have won much more than they have. They will celebrate. They will leave themselves unguarded. They will perish."

"Let them."

Nostalion frowned at him. "I thought these were ones you have chosen as allies. Why would you now abandon them?"

"Someone less accustomed to his moods would say that he always intended to, but I would think that you would not need to ask that question," Elladan began, and the tracker looked over at him with annoyance. "I see that our proximity to the shadow of Mordor has affected you again."

"The echil speaks too much," Nostalion grumbled, and the twins smiled. Varyar should not be amused by his friend's discomfort, but he, too, felt a sense of pride when he was able to evade the tracker's senses.

"If you have come seeking us to use his talent—"

"Fear not, valiant protector, your friend is in no danger from us," Elrohir said, and now Firyavaryar was the one glaring at the sons of Elrond. The brothers laughed. "We were tasked to find those injured and help them to the halls of healing."

"You are the sons of a healer who is known throughout Middle Earth, and yet you are only looking for those injured, not treating them?"

Elladan grimaced. "It would seem things are quite... tense in the white city. Not everyone is pleased with Estel's arrival, even if it meant their survival, and the death of the steward does not aid matters."

"Meaning the idiotic men do not want elves in their city."

"Yes, though it would be better if you did not go around calling our hosts idiots," Elladan said. Nostalion grunted, and Varyar shook his head. They assumed much if they thought he was staying in Minas Tirith. "You could help us move the wounded."

"You amuse me. I had not realized that spending as much time with men as you do had made you as stupid as they are as well," Firyavaryar told him. "I can help with nothing, or have you forgotten that? No, they will die where they lay, I suppose, if they are not already dead, but my aid would only ensure that."

"Lost your glove, did you?"

"Lost one, tore the other, and Sérëdhiel is not here to mend it or make another. Nostalion and I will go forward to scout and make sure that the orcs have truly fled."

Elladan nodded, though he stopped to exchange some silent words with his twin before addressing Varyar again. "And if they have not?"

"They will regret it," Nostalion answered with a slight smile, moving away from the others. Firyavaryar smiled, turning to follow his gwador. They would be where they were needed most, as usual. Only a fool thought this was over.

"You're in a sour mood. Angry to have been bested by a dwarf, are you?" Gimli asked, looking over at the elf princeling. He didn't know if this was the sea longing or just fatigue after their long match and battle, but something about that pointy-eared prince was off, and he wanted to know what it was. Now. "You still think you should have gotten more credit for that mûmak?"

The elf's head jerked up. "Are you suggesting that you won? You know you did not. Even if you only allow the mûmak to count as one, I had plenty more than you before I killed it."

"And you know the other one doesn't count for you. That was the other pointy-eared devil."

Legolas frowned. "The other pointy-eared what? Is that what you're calling the sons of Elrond? The brothers of your friend Aragorn?"

Gimli shook his head. He wasn't talking about either of them, though he wouldn't necessarily have avoided using those words in connection with the twins. They had pointy ears and were devils. He knew that. He had seen the antics of the twins, had seen Aragorn with them, and he would not doubt that Legolas was worse when he was with them as well. The elves were full of devilry. "I wasn't speaking of the twins—"

"Then you were not insulting us?" Elladan asked, stopping behind Legolas, his twin next to him. Though Gimli did not know for certain that Elladan had spoken—he didn't know which elf was which, damn it. He didn't like not knowing who was doing the talking or the moving. "I think I am almost insulted that we were not the ones being insulted."

Gimli frowned. Those two had to be insane. "You daft fools want to be insulted?"

"Indeed, it does seem as though we get little else from the men, despite what has happened here. It has been so common that we have found its absence to be somewhat... alarming," Elrohir said. Gimli studied him, trying to tell the difference between the two of them. He didn't know how Legolas or Aragorn did it. Blasted elves. Impossible to deal with.

"And it is more common to be insulted by a dwarf than it is to be insulted by a man," Elladan added. "We had expected more from you, Gimli son of Glóin."

"Oh, aye, and I'd manage more than a few words directed at you, but I haven't—"

"You do not need to get caught by their poor taste in humor, Gimli. They are only teasing you, and they do so poorly," Legolas said, shaking his head.

"I don't need you to defend me, you pointy-eared princeling," Gimli told him. He looked over at the twins. "I was just about to say that I've got word or two for them, but I was speaking of another elf. A dark haired, foul-tempered one."

"I take it you have made the acquaintance of the elf known as Nostalion, Gimli," Gandalf said as he joined them. "I do not suppose any of you have seen him lately, have you?"

"What do you want him for?" Gimli asked, frowning. "Nothing to that one but a dark look and some minor skill with a blade."

The elves all shook their head. Legolas almost smiled. "You speak of one who was trained as an assassin. Nostalion has more than a slight talent with blades, and beyond his skills there, he also possesses a much more valuable, much rarer ability to track. It is an incredible thing, and I owe my life to that gift."

"Why am I only hearing of this now, laddie?"

"If you seek Nostalion for his ability to find Frodo, I fear you will be disappointed," one of the twins said, shaking his head. "He implied that he could not use it here, this close to the shadow of Mordor, and I believe he is right, for we were able to approach him and his companion without either of them noticing."

Gandalf sighed. "Frodo has passed beyond my sight. I cannot tell his fate now. We need to know what has happened to him and to Sam."

"Nostalion said he was going to patrol the area between here and Mordor," the other twin said. He looked to the distance. "I do not know that we could find any sign of him or his companion, but I know that if we need them for anything else, they will be here."

"Aye? And what gives you such faith in them?" Gimli demanded, wondering how these sons of Elrond knew an Avari assassin—and why they'd trust him.

"They know because Varyar is and always has been loyal," Legolas answered with a slight smile that had the dwarf wondering if the sea longing had made him insane already. "He will be there when he is needed. He always is."

"We should speak," Elladan said, and Aragorn looked up. He frowned at his brothers, concerned by their sudden appearance. He had knew they had gone out into the fields to search for any more wounded that might be found—the grim task of moving the dead had begun as well, so it was surprising to see that they had returned before that was completed.

"Is something wrong?" Aragorn asked, though he knew the answer before he spoke. His brothers had sought him out for a reason, and it was not one that would involve mischief and fun. These days were dark, full of unpleasantness and evil, and until they knew what had become of Frodo, until he succeeded in destroying the ring, the days would continue on in the same way.

"We were went out into the fields seeking the injured, as you know," Elrohir began, and Aragorn nodded. He had not forgotten that. He had not been pleased by the way some of the men of Gondor were treating his brothers, but he hadn't had a chance to deal with that yet. He was not yet accepted as the king, and he knew he could not make all the changes that were needed until he was. "It was there we crossed paths with those we had traveled with before."

"Nostalion?" Aragorn had not seen the tracker or Firyavaryar since the battle began, and he did not know what had become of them, but he had to admit—he had not much cared. He did not want to see either Avari.

"And another," Elrohir agreed, folding his hands in front of him. "Either the efforts made to conceal Varyar's survival failed or Legolas suffers more under the sea longing than we knew, but he spoke of his friend as though he were alive and about to return."

Aragorn frowned. "You're saying Legolas knows that Firyavaryar is alive? I suppose Firyavaryar doesn't know or he would be here."

"I do not know that he would be," Elladan said, shaking his head. "Varyar looks after Legolas from a distance. That was why he left Greenwood when he was not healed, why he left Imladris before he could be found. He has come all this way without once confronting Legolas, though I do believe he has acted to aid him more than we know. Still, he does not feel he has earned the right to see Legolas, nor would he, for what he did in betraying him—that is a crime that has no repayment."

Aragorn frowned. "Is that truly what you believe?"

"It is what you believe, is it not? All this time you have not forgiven him for what he has done. Even death was not atonement enough for you," Elladan reminded him, and Aragorn grimaced. His brother started to pace the length of the room. "I do not know what we should do. Legolas may be aware of Varyar's survival. He may also know that others have acted to conceal this fact. I do not know. I do not think that he can lose Varyar a second time."

"That was why we agreed not to tell him that we knew Firyavaryar was alive," Aragorn said. "I don't know how Legolas found out he was alive—Varyar did seem to risk it that on more than one occasion yet Legolas seemed to remain unaware of him—but I do not think that it is the kind of crisis that you fear."

The twins exchanged a look, and this time Elrohir spoke. "We are not certain that Varyar intends to survive the next battle. Even if he did, it may not be possible. The poison he carries is from the shadow, and using it this close to Mordor is a risk in of itself. If Ogol was a servant of Sauron, then he could fall when the ring is destroyed."

Aragorn grimaced. "Should we send for Ada? Is there anything he can do to help heal him?"

"It is doubtful."

"Aragorn," a voice said from behind him, and he turned around to face Gandalf. "It is time. We must decide what to do next. I have sent out word to the others, and your friends have already gathered in the throne room."

He nodded, though he hated to put aside doing anything for Legolas—for Firyavaryar—until later, but he knew that there was much more than Legolas to concern himself with, so many other lives and fears to worry about, and their hope lay with him, as king.

He had never known that responsibility to weigh heavier than it did now. To have to place the lives of everyone else over the hopes of one, to know that he might well fail in his promise to Legolas—he had said if he could bring Firyavaryar back, if he could end his friend's pain, he would. He had not. He had not prevented Legolas from feeling the sea longing, and if he was unable to keep Firyavaryar alive during what was to come, then he would truly have failed his friend.

"All hope is not lost."

Aragorn looked over at the wizard. "Was I so melancholy that you thought those words were necessary? Do I seem that troubled to you?"

"You did seem quite grave there, brother," Elrohir told him. "Perhaps we have said too much, added too many burdens to you."

"Perhaps," Aragorn said. He looked to Gandalf. "This hope you speak of... is it a gildin?"

"It may be. There is still a role yet for that one in Middle Earth."

"And that is why you did not tell us that he was alive? Why you concealed that fact from Legolas all this time?" Aragorn demanded. "You did know that Firyavaryar survived the fall, didn't you? Why did you not speak of it? All that time that Legolas grieved, that he suffered—"

Gandalf closed his eyes, letting out a breath. "Much of Firyavaryar's path has been obscured from the sight of those who would aid him. He was a variable that could not be predicted, and though at times his fate appeared set, it still became uncertain. Surely none of us would have permitted him to be afflicted as he has been if we had known, but we were not allowed to know. We could not track him, could not find him, could not help him. Perhaps that was as it must be, for he carries that plague within him that has aided you in battle more than once. The ability Nostalion has is not to be overlooked, either. I wish I could have asked him to seek Frodo for me, but he is unavailable, and I do not know that we will be able to learn of Frodo's fate from any friendly source."

Aragorn nodded. He had seen for himself how the elf struggled when he was close to the nazgûl, and it must be worse for him here, this close to Mordor, with so many of them as well as other dark servants nearby. "We may not know what Frodo's fate is, but we can still make plans. We must make plans."

"It may mean another battle," Gandalf warned. "One we may not be prepared to fight."

"Then it means battle. Come. We will discuss it."

Estel had become a king.

He might not have been crowned, and he might not even have been acknowledged, but that did not matter. As he led the army out to battle, he had led them not as a ranger, not as an adviser, but as a king. He had carried the confidence that everyone needed, buoying them along with him as he took them into battle. This was the man that they had been waiting for, this was their hope, and he continued to inspire them even though the black gates loomed before them and the servant of Sauron claimed that Frodo was dead.

That speech he had given was the speech of a king, one full of confidence, and it was as it should be. Legolas knew that Estel could have a cause for his conviction. Even as the servant of Sauron lied, as he tried to use Frodo's mithril shirt to convince them, if Estel had found Nostalion among the warriors—and Legolas felt certain he was there—the tracker would have given him the truth.

Frodo lived.

And Estel was king.

Legolas knew that he had, in some sense, lost his friend to that role. It was something he could not give much thought to, not with battle nearly upon them, but he knew—this was the end of their free days of roaming, their days of causing trouble and mischief, their days of worrying their fathers with their antics. From now on, Estel would act as a king.

He fought like a king.

He always had, but somehow, it was still different now. It might have been that it was the last battle, that they were against an overwhelming number and that hope should have fled from them. They had drawn out Sauron's army as he had set out to do, and they had known their chances were not good, but they were only the diversion. A diversion only had to last long enough to allow something else to happen.

If Nostalion was near, if Legolas could ask him how close to Mount Doom Frodo was, he would, and he knew that all would be reassured to know that Frodo and Sam were close to the end, that they had to survive only a few minutes more.

Only that survival seemed impossible. Their number had always been fewer than the host of their enemy, and though they were all skilled and battle-tested warriors here, the survivors of the assault on Minas Tirith and some Helm's Deep as well, it was not enough. It did not matter their skill, for as many as they cut down, more orcs came, a seemingly endless number. He did not know his own count of kills, and he was uncertain if Gimli did, either.

Legolas heard a cry, seeing many orcs rushing against Estel, and he would have gone to his friend's side to aid him, but he could not get close. Orcs and allies pressed against him, barring his path, and one tried to climb upon him to force him to the ground as they had done Estel.

This was the last battle. They could all die here.

If Frodo made it to Mount Doom, then perhaps the sacrifice was worth it. If he did not, if he needed more time—they must find some way of holding out longer, but Legolas could think of nothing. He forced the orc off his back, grimacing as he saw the gash along his arm. Pain was everywhere, having little meaning now, but he would feel all of this later—assuming he lived, that any of them did.

Wait. He did know how they could give Frodo more time.

"Varyar!" Legolas did not know where his friend was in this crowd, but he knew that Firyavaryar's loyalty would not have let him stay far from where Legolas was. He would be close enough to hear him, and even if he was not, Nostalion would be. "The arrows!"

"What are you on about, you daft princeling?" Gimli demanded, kicking aside an orc he'd just killed with his axe. Legolas dodged another, letting it go into the dwarf's path, not caring about the count now. "They're too close for any arrows."

"They will not be for long," Nostalion said, and Gimli glared at the assassin as his blade moved into an orc that the dwarf would have claimed for his own. Legolas shook his head. Were it not for pride, they should all have been glad to see the assassin draw near. Few could fight like he did, and he was a valuable ally even without the tracking he did. "Clear the path, dwarf, and keep it clear. Your friend has a plan."

"A plan? Among this madness?"

"Yes," Legolas insisted. He knew Gimli would think he was insane, would perhaps blame all of this on the sea longing, but he did not. He knew what must be done. "Varyar suggested it before, when we were outnumbered, but we did not need it then. We need it now."

"You are wounded," Firyavaryar said, appearing at Legolas' side. Behind him, a gap had formed in the crowd of orcs. Many hissed in pain as the poison took hold of them, and Gimli looked at Varyar as though perhaps he was the enemy. Legolas knew he was not. He did not know how his friend had survived, and he did not care. Firyavaryar was alive. He was here, and they needed him. "It is too dangerous. You won't be able to release the arrows in time."

"We have to," Legolas said, his eyes going back to Estel. He could not get close to the man, not without Varyar's help in some way. He knew others were closer, and he would have to trust that they would be able to assist Estel while Legolas fought in another way. "This is what must be done, Varyar. I trust you to do it."

"You remain a fool," Varyar told him, but he nodded. "Gather your arrows. At least three, though more would be better."

"More archers?" Elrohir asked, coming up to them as Legolas prepared his bow. He could not risk doing more than three arrows, not with his injury, and the arrival of another skilled archer was more than welcome. He also knew that Elladan would find his way to them when he was done helping Estel. "Nostalion, Legolas, and I are not enough?"

"I hope your skill at archery has improved over the centuries," Firyavaryar told him, and Elrohir laughed, leading Gimli to curse all elves. The Avari ignored him as he withdrew a blade from a fallen orc. "You will not have long. Aim your arrows for the ground, space them apart. The dwarf might keep the closer ones off of us until we are ready to fire, so try not to hit him in the process."

"Why you—"

"Yrch," Legolas said, cutting off the dwarf's curses and getting laughter from his old friend. Elrohir smiled as he readied his bow, and Nostalion joined them, catching Varyar by the arm. Whatever words passed between them were either lost in the dark tongue or the noise of battle, but Firyavaryar nodded, stepping back. He let out a breath before placing the blade against his palm. He cut across it, and Legolas watched blood well up out of the wound.

Varyar moved forward, smearing the blood against the tips of Nostalion's arrows, and the assassin fired them off, hardly giving his friend a chance to get out of their path. Firyavaryar cupped his hand, not allowing blood to spill on the ground. He reached Elrohir, quickly spreading blood across his arrows. He ran from Elrohir's side as soon as he was done, one hand clamped firmly over the other.

If any of the blood touched the ground before this was done—but no, it wouldn't. Legolas knew that Varyar would not let that happen. He waited, knowing he would have to be quick when his own turn came.

He heard a rumble around him, voices shouting about eagles coming and the shrieks of nazgûl, but he did forced himself to think only of the arrows he had lined along his bow. Varyar had warned them all about the timing, and Nostalion had shown them how fast the release must be, and Legolas knew that he would be fighting his own weakness, but he would do this.

"I trust you," Legolas repeated, and Varyar hesitated over the arrows, shaking his head. "I am glad you are alive and here with us now."

"I am not," Firyavaryar said, wiping his palm along the arrows before Legolas could argue with him. He corrected his aim even as he released the arrows, watching them fly forward.

"You daft elf! That was almost my head!"

"It was almost a pity," Legolas called back, and Gimli grunted, whatever else he would have said forgotten as the arrows struck the ground, splitting it. Orcs cried in panic as the earth around them changed, cracks forming and holes opening up beneath them, plunging them down into the nothingness below. `

The dark tower started to crumble, crashing down upon itself as the ground swallowed the gate and the armies of Mordor with it. Some tried to flee, but they did not find shelter or safety, unable to escape as the land itself was their enemy, swallowing up all of their evil.

"Frodo!" A hobbit—Pippin most likely—cried. "He's done it! He's destroyed the ring."

Legolas smiled. Though he did believe that Frodo had fulfilled his quest, he knew that it was not Frodo alone they should be thanking. He did not know that the destruction of the ring could have done as much damage as what they had all just beheld. Sauron's power was strong, but he had not created all of those orcs or bound the gate to his will only. The tower, perhaps, would still have fallen, for it was a manifestation of his being, the home of his eye, but not all of it would have crumbled without help.

He turned to find the other who had made this possible, but he did not see his friend among those still standing. He did not see Firyavaryar at all. His gwador was gone.