Forever Afternoon
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Word Count: 5,124
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note: I always meant to go back to the issue raised in chapter nine, but I didn't realize it would take me twenty chapters to do it. I was rather optimistic about things, had no idea just how much it would take to tell the story around the story Tolkien created, and I had no way of knowing all the obstacles that would come up in my personal life to steal inspiration and make this seem impossible to finish. It isn't, in fact, it looks like it will be a nice even thirty chapters (well, perhaps the last one is an epilogue?) but I'm not going to make any promises there, even if I have kind of known the end for a long time, too. It was one of the few scenes that made this story happen in the first place.

That said, I'm a bit worried about the fallout from all of this...

A Cure that Causes More Poison

"He still has not stirred?" Aragorn asked, returning to the sick bed. They had given Firyavaryar a room of his own, one near the courtyard so that the ent that had apparently claimed him could be able to watch over him without being forced into a space too small for him.

"No, he has not, and I do not think he will," Sérëdhiel answered. She folded her hands together and lowered her head. She seemed weary, but that was not unexpected under the circumstances. He had seen her brother when he was brought in, looking smaller than any elf should in the arms of the ent. Firyavaryar did seem to be fading, despite his claim that he could not do so. Aragorn did not know if there was anything that these houses could do for him, a fact he did not want to share with Legolas, though it was far from a secret. The regular healers of the house, joined by Elrohir and Elladan, had concluded what Sérëdhiel already knew: they could do nothing for her brother.

Aragorn did not know if that was why the others were gone—perhaps she had ordered them away to spare Idhrenion the sight of his older brother dying, to keep Thenidriel and Alassë from seeing it as well. He thought it was strange that of all of them, only Eruaistaniel remained other than Sérëdhiel, fragile as she seemed to be, having flinched at Sérëdhiel's words, quiet tears on her face, her body tense with sobs that she did not let quake her.

"He might not," Aragorn agreed with reluctance. Not long ago, they had discussed how losing Firyavaryar a second time would affect Legolas, and all Aragorn knew was that he did not want to see it happen. "I was told that you asked for me."

She laughed. "Asked for you? I would not call shouting and demanding asking."

Aragorn smiled, though only for a moment. His duties as king had pulled him away from Firyavaryar and the others while he was settled and seen to by all the other healers. Perhaps it had wasted time, but Aragorn would not claim to be the only one capable of healing Firyavaryar. He did not even know that he was capable of it. He did not think he was. Still, despite that, he had been told of her supposed rudeness and her demands, assuming many of those complaints to be exaggerations. Even if they were not, her desperation was understandable. Her brother was near death, and no ordinary healer could aid him—if they could have, she would already have done it. He had heard that she was skilled in that respect, and he did not doubt the word of his brothers or his ada. They had come here for Aragorn's aid, and he wished he had it to give.

"You should not smile. I should not have had to demand it. You knew why we were here, yet you gave us over to those who cannot help," Sérëdhiel said, watching him with a bleakness in her eyes that even Éowyn had not shown when Aragorn forbid her to come with them. He almost grimaced. "Prophecy says you have the hands of a healer. I understand your reluctance to use them for my brother, given the nature of his affliction, but you are the only one we can ask now. If you did not intend to do anything for him, you should have told us when we came. We do not stay where we are not wanted, and Firyavaryar would not want to be here."

Aragorn felt the censure of her words. He glanced at his hands and then met her eyes. "It may be that I can heal. I have aided those who should not have recovered, but I do not know that I can assist your brother. He is fading, and that is, I understand, a choice."

"He is not fading," she snapped, her eyes darkening like her brothers would have done. "He is succumbing to the poison he carries. That is different. As much as Varyar hates the way he has to live, as much guilt as he carries for what he has done, as much as he despises himself, he would not abandon us. He would never fade, not after what happened to our parents."

"You speak much of things you know nothing of," Eruaistaniel added, not bothering to wipe away any of her tears as she spoke. "This is the elf that taught me that I could live in spite of what the edain had done to me, who gave me hope in the bitterest, darkest time of my life. He already carried a plague, and yet he found a way to help me want to live again. You know nothing of him. He is not fading. He dies, but not by choice. Oh, I know it would be a relief to be free of the pain and the burden he suffers, but he is too loyal to die. If he were fading, it would already have passed. He is still fighting, you fool, and you stand there denying his strength when that is all that keeps him alive. You are the coward, not him, and had I any skill with the blade, I would challenge you myself for that offense."

"I myself would be tempted to take up that cause, Estel," Legolas said, joining them. Eruaistaniel lost her boldness for a moment, and Aragorn almost joined her in doing so. He had betrayed his friend again, always assuming the worst of one Legolas called gwador. "I do not expect you ever to feel the same sort of affection for him as I have, even though you are both gwedeir to me. Still, you cannot call this cowardice. Stubbornness, yes, and other things I do not think we can comprehend, but not cowardice. Varyar does not fear death. If he sought it, he could have had it. I believe Eruaistaniel is right—he is fighting against that. I hope, dear lady, that you are a part of that cause."

She flushed, shaking her head. "I do not see how any sort of affection from me can aid matters when he cannot touch anyone. It is not a reason to live, not if he cannot touch me, and it assumes much to think he would want to."

"Legolas," Sérëdhiel began, but as she did, she flinched. "I should tell you that I am sorry—"

"Do not apologize. I know why he asked you not to tell me he lived, and while it is difficult, I have always understood that your family's loyalty was to each other first," Legolas told her. He looked toward Aragorn. "It has been difficult to determine what I feel about these events—relief that Varyar lives, anger that I did not know of it, the pain of it all—"

"He did not want to betray you. He tried so long to avoid it, to prevent it, but he could not. All he has done since he fell was seek a way to atone for it, but he would not face you until he had," she said, glancing toward her brother, turning back to Legolas with what might have been tears in her eyes. "I did not like deceiving you. I never have."

"He was forgiven long before, and I wish he would have accepted that," Legolas told her, receiving a sad smile in return. He looked to Aragorn. "I will not ask you to put your own life at risk, and I will not take Gondor's king from her, but I cannot do other than ask—Can you help him? Will you?"

"I believe he can, though it will take great skill and great care," Gandalf said, startling all of them. Aragorn did not want to admit to just how much relief he felt at the wizard's arrival. He did not know how he would have answered that question, and he did not like himself for it. Surely he should have been willing to risk it without hesitation—how many other times had he done that during this war? Was he still condemning Firyavaryar for his betrayal? Was that why he would not act as he might have for someone else? "Let young Thranduilion have time with his friends, and we shall discuss it."

Aragorn nodded, though he found himself wondering where Gandalf had been and how he knew what to do to help—if anything could. He needed to touch someone to heal them, to whisper words that he did not think would save someone like Firyavaryar. He could not say. He felt the limits of his own abilities, and he did not know what it would mean if he failed to heal Firyavaryar. Would it cost him his friendship with Legolas forever? He had not yet been able to mend all that had gone wrong with Legolas—and he did not not think that Sérëdhiel had done so, either. Legolas was not even truly acknowledging the problem, and Aragorn did not believe he would. He could hide it now, with everyone's worries over Firyavaryar, and it wasn't likely that he'd bring it up later. It would be forgotten and covered over, even if it was not resolved.

Not that Aragorn would allow that. He would fix things, he vowed, before he crossed the room to join Gandalf. The wizard led him into the hall, leaving Aragorn to frown in response. Was he thinking that Aragorn should not hear what Legolas might say to his ailing friend? Or was it something that Legolas thought Eruaistaniel should say that Aragorn could not hear? He supposed that it would be easier for her to say what should be said without him, but he still did not understand Gandalf's behavior.

He found a place against the wall to rest and glanced back at the door. Why had they not brought Sérëdhiel into this discussion? "I do not know that there is anything I can do unless I touch him, and he warned me repeatedly not to. I want to help, but I cannot die now, not after all we have done."

"Indeed, now would be a poor time to die," Gandalf agreed with amusement. He smiled, shaking his head. "No, Aragorn, that is not to be your fate. You are not meant to die healing anyone."

"You have reason for this confidence?"

"I believe this will give that to you." Gandalf handed him a parchment, and Aragorn unfolded it, looking at the unfamiliar language and the words on the bottom of it. "I have consulted experts for its translation, though I think one other might be necessary."

"Nostalion," Aragorn said, an unpleasant feeling accompanying that realization. He lowered the page, looking up at the Istari with a frown. He knew what he held in his hand, and he thought perhaps he had been punishing the wrong betrayer all along. "This is Ogol's cure, isn't it? Or Draugminaion's? This could have healed Firyavaryar months ago?"

"I believe so, yes."

"And you withheld this from him knowing what it was?"

Gandalf grimaced. "There are many paths that must be taken without knowing their end or what might be needed upon the way—"

"You damned Istari. I do not care if you claim to be doing the will of the Valar," Sérëdhiel said, dangerous anger in her voice as she approached them. "You cannot excuse this. You are the monster, not my brother."

Sérëdhiel had known rage few times in her life. She knew fear more, being the one who stayed when the others left, being the one who healed and not the one who fought, left behind to worry as the others took the risks, knowing she would be needed but not knowing if her skills would be enough to save those she loved. She had known grief, a paralyzing thing that had left her unable to act until Firyavaryar somehow found her and Idhrenion and led them away from their father's body after he faded, knowing that their mother had died but not how or why, things Varyar could not speak of even now. She had known happiness in Greenwood when they found peace for a time, when they called Legolas gwador, but her rage had been stirred by only three people before today: Ogol, Draugminaion, and Melgur.

She had never thought she would list Mithrandir among those who had enraged her, but now she did. Now she knew that they were only what Varyar hated the most—pawns caught in someone else's game, manipulated and used, only this time by someone they had trusted. Nostalion had not accepted the wizard as the rest of them had, and he had been right.

She felt sick, knowing what she did.

"It was not Firyavaryar's time to shed that burden. You know this, Aragorn. You saw it in battle."

The ranger shook his head. "I think there could have been other ways—we do not even know that it was not the destruction of the ring that caused the collapse. From what Legolas says, Firyavaryar was a skilled warrior without the poison. He didn't fight armed because with that plague he did not need to, but he could still have helped if he'd been able to take that cure."

"Why do you speak to convince him?" Sérëdhiel demanded. "Should you not think to seek my acceptance? I assure you, I will give you no approval, no acquiescence, but you should argue to convince me, not him."

"I spoke to Aragorn because he saw what your brother is capable of, what he was needed for, the role he had yet to play—"

"No," she snapped. Had she a blade, she would have used it against Mithrandir, wizard or not. "Do not say he had some part to play. I do not care if that battle could not have been won without him—and I do not even know that is true, for all say it was the destruction of the ring and naught to do with my brother that made that possible. Do you know what you took from him when you hid that cure? You committed a crime that Ogol and Draugminaion never managed to do—you stole his spirit. He had done what he never wanted to do—betrayed Legolas—and he had lived after that to face a life where he was condemned by guilt and trapped in a body full of poison but he was too damned loyal to leave his family or his friends. He was miserable, and there was no release from it, for you took that from him. You used him, used all of us, and I will not forgive you for it."

"Sérëdhiel, you must—"

"I must do nothing," she said, resolute. She was not going to listen to the Istari, would not be appeased by him. She grabbed the paper from the ranger's hand, only just stopping herself from crushing it in her fingers. "This is all I want from you, from any of you. We will not stay, and you will not follow us. You used us before, but you will never do so again."

"Wait," the ranger said. He swallowed. "We do not know how effective that cure will be on your brother—it may only have saved one infected from the outside, as Ogol was, but it may help to have me be a part of creating it."

She hesitated. She did not want to accept anything from them, but she had heard him—he had seemed genuinely upset when he learned what Mithrandir had withheld from them—and she knew that Legolas trusted him even though he hated Firyavaryar. She did not know if this would be enough to save her brother, and if she needed the healing hands of a king, then she would use them.

"Very well," she said, about to tell him to find her husband when she became aware of him in the other room. "We will ask Nostalion to read this and then gather what is necessary. And we will not be disturbed."

The echil followed her as she started for her brother's bedside. "What will you tell Legolas?"

"The truth."

Firyavaryar lifted his head. Though it was still dark, he did not feel as weak as he had for most of his unwilling stay in this hole. He did not even know if the hole was a hole—he saw nothing outside it, not even when Draugminaion was experimenting upon him—he knew only pain and darkness, and he could not say that the time that felt like centuries was more than days or even hours. He should be dead, but he understood death to be a mercy that he would never receive, not at Ogol's hands or at Draugminaion's.

The unfortunate truth was that he was recovering, if such a thing could be said of someone in his condition. He could say with near certainty that Draugminaion had achieved his goal—he had found the level of poison that Varyar's elven healing could withstand without leaving him weak and feverish.

He was balanced, for the first time in years, he was balanced. The poison was halted in its progress enough to where it would not kill him even if Draugminaion did not intervene. He no longer needed the monster to prevent death.

He was death.

He was a weapon. He knew that now. He was death in the flesh. Everything he touched died, everything that his skin made contact with was corrupted, ruined if not completely destroyed. He was a plague. He knew this.

He did not know why Ogol had let it happen. Perhaps he wanted a weapon, but he had always insisted on making Firyavaryar into one in his own way, wanting his "beautiful" army. Years in the dark, with few glimpses of himself outside of delirium—what he saw in those times was suspect because there should not have been light to see anything—did not tell him how he now appeared, but he doubted that he still met the standard that he had been bred to, the standard Ogol had wanted.

Ogol should have stopped this, but he had not. Perhaps he wanted this, wanted a living weapon, but Varyar did not know why he would want one he could not touch. He had been so fond of having his pet at his side, at his feet, and now he could not have it.

Firyavaryar was too dangerous for that. He smiled to himself as he moved toward the wall. He did not know where the door was, but he did not need a door, not anymore. He had been held more by his own body's weakness than this room, and that was going to end. Now.

First, though, he had someone to find.

Draugminaion had only been foolish enough to leave him and Nostalion in the same space once, and because of that particular escape attempt, Nostalion bore a scar and Firyavaryar had what felt like a decade missing from his memory, lost to a fever he swore he still felt sometimes, but then he was poison.

He stumbled through the halls, unable to see where he was going, but he still knew the difference between the smell of an orc and an elf, so he did not care when he heard shrieks as he passed by other inhabitants of this dungeon. He did not care if they lived or died, though a part of him thought he should want revenge after all that they had done to him in helping Draugminaion's experimentation, but he wanted nothing more than to leave.

He stopped at the edge of a room, leaning against the wall. "Perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps I should just let this whole place crumble into nothing."

"You are boasting again," Nostalion said, and Varyar smiled as he heard the other elf's disgruntled voice. "I suppose you came for another ill-advised escape attempt?"

"This will not be an attempt. I am no longer limited by the weakness of my body. The fool accomplished what he wanted, but in doing so, he made escape—and death—possible."

"What?"

"I am a walking plague," Varyar reminded him. "What I touch, I kill, only now it is not able to kill me. I am not succumbing to the poison myself. No, I am, but only because I have used it on too many others and cut myself on too many stones along the way, but I was fine when I woke, and I am still standing. We can do this, Nostalion. We can free ourselves and leave this place as a ruin."

"I should not listen to you. You are always raising false hopes."

Firyavaryar snorted. "You are an assassin. You do not hope. You follow me because I am willing to fight to my death to get to my family. I have never stopped trying to escape. Sometimes I was less capable of it than I thought I was, but I assure you, this is not one of those times. I have left death and destruction behind me, and you may have nothing to fight. I know that will disappoint you, but come with me anyway."

"Why should I? Are you not the one who constantly tells me that my family only used me and that it is not worth returning to them?"

"I will not deny that I still believe it is not, but why stay here, gwador?" Varyar asked. "If nothing else, there is revenge in our escape, and that is worth it."

"Are you feverish again?"

Firyavaryar frowned. "Perhaps. I do not know. Why?"

"You called me gwador."

"Did I?" Varyar rubbed his head. It ached, and he did not remember much of what had happened since he rose from the cold floor of his own prison chamber. "I suppose that means now I have to free you. I cannot abandon family."

"There," Seredhiel said, watching the door close behind Estel. "It is time."

"Time?" Legolas asked with a frown. He knew—or at least he supposed that she would want to watch over her brother on her own, to spare the others pain if Varyar failed to recover, to spare him any embarrassment that might come of his illness, but Legolas did not want to leave. His place was with his friend, and he had been denied that for to long already.

"We must go, Legolas."

"You cannot, not when you have only just begun treatment for Firyavaryar," he objected, shaking his head. "I do not understand why you cannot stay in one place for more than a day or two—what is there to fear this time? Ogol is dead. Sauron is defeated. I already know that Varyar lives, so you do not need to hide that from me, and I already forgave him, so you need not fear that anyone should harm him, not now, not when Firyavaryar needs aid and you are welcome—"

"We are not welcome," Sérëdhiel said. She sighed, looking down at her hands. "I know you do not understand that—you have always made friends and allies with such ease that you do not understand what it is to struggle for a place, but even were that true, were we to feel welcome, we could not remain."

"This is not about your conference with Éowyn, is it? I thought her spirits were much improved and you two had a good conversation this time," Legolas said, frowning. He did not understand. He knew that the lady of Rohan had come to speak to Sérëdhiel, and he had been glad of it, for he thought it helped both of them, but perhaps he was wrong.

"I believe a great weight has lifted from her heart, and I am glad of it for her sake, but it has not gone from mine," Sérëdhiel told him. She reached over to pull Varyar's blanket over him. When she returned her eyes to Legolas, her face was full of sadness. "You should know that this cure was not the work of the king's hands alone. This was taken from Ogol's dominion, and I do not know if it was created by him or Draugminaion, but it would seem that Mithrandir has had it for some time now. I cannot say if he had it from the first, when Firyavaryar survived what he should not, but I do know that he kept it from us even as he manipulated my brother into going after you on your foolish quests. He could have had all he wanted, I fear, for that cure—we would have given it—but all he had to do was use Varyar's loyalty to you, and he did. More than once."

Legolas grimaced. "I do not understand. That cannot be right. It is not—I know your brother would do anything for me—anything that would not hurt you or Idhrenion, that is—but I have known Mithrandir almost as long as I have known you, and I do not like to think he would do this."

"Nor do I." Sérëdhiel glanced toward her husband before she spoke again. "I do not know that Mithrandir feels no regret. From what he said, he feels he made the choice that had to be made. He may take what comfort he can from that kind of knowledge, even if there is little to be had, as we have all had to do in the past, but that does not make it easier to accept or forgive."

"I should have killed the wizard long ago," Nostalion muttered, and Legolas knew that opinion was not likely to change. "And it is not just the wizard that would experience my wrath. I will not pretend to enjoy being indebted—and that debt is to the echil, I will never acknowledge the one the wizard would claim—I do not blame the new king for what the wizard did, but I will not pretend that we have been done a favor when what was done was a crime. The echil's actions do not set it right, and I despise knowing that Varyar will still feel guilt over his actions—yet others will feel none."

Sérëdhiel winced. She looked back at Legolas. "That is why we must go, Legolas. It is not because I would deny you our company or hide from you, but I also know you as well as I do my brother. Your loyalty is to the lord of the white tree. You will remain here, and you will aid him in beginning this new age for Middle Earth. We, however, will not."

"Sérëdhiel—"

"No. You do not understand. Mithrandir's actions are like a poison. I know of his value and his service, and I know how he is looked to as a mentor. I know he will be needed now. Yet the thought of him makes me angry—bitter in such a way that I would have done him harm if I could have—and that is like a poison festering, growing more evil as it lingers, corrupting what it touches until it would not be only Mithrandir that I hated. It would be all that listened to him. It would be those hobbits. The dwarf. Your friend, the king. Even you."

"I do not—"

"This time we must go for forgiveness' sake," she said. "It is not fear that forces us to go, but love. I love you as my gwador too much to let my own bitterness turn me against you, but I believe if I stayed where Mithrandir was—if any of us did—that would be inevitable. You all think me so good, but in truth... I am my brother's sister, and my logic does not always follow reason, not when it comes to him or Idhrenion."

Legolas nodded. He thought he could almost understand what she was saying and why she said it, but he did not know how to accept that, either. "I still have not been able to find balance after learning that Varyar was alive and that you all kept that fact from me, but I have not abandoned anyone or asked them to leave."

"You are different. You are far more willing to forgive. We Avari... We are not."

He sighed. "You do not know that Varyar will recover. He may need more treatment. You should not take him now. This cannot be good for him. I do not think you should go, not yet."

"Not ever, you mean," Nostalion said, and Legolas could not deny the truth of the assassin's words. The other elf shook his head, and Legolas wondered if it would have been worth having Estel try to heal that scar on his face. "You are his friend. You know how he would feel to wake up in a place like this, with a debt to your echil and the treachery of the wizard to greet him."

Firyavaryar would hate all of that. Legolas knew that. He should let them take him away for those reasons alone. He did not want to do that. "Do not leave until you have some sign that he will recover. Please. Do not leave me without that much hope, even if it is only a gildin."

Sérëdhiel grimaced. "That is not as amusing as it should be, not after what Mithrandir did, but... We will wait until we know he is recovering."

"I am glad," Legolas told her, smiling. "This bitterness, too, will pass, Sérëdhiel."

"Unlikely."

"Firyavaryar?"

The response his friend gave was in the black speech, unintelligible to everyone except perhaps Nostalion, but having it come at all was a relief to all that were present. Legolas saw Nostalion smile, drawing close to Sérëdhiel. She put her hand over his and smiled down at her brother with love. Varyar had spoken. That was more than a mere gildin. Legolas felt certain that this meant he would recover. He would have to tell Estel that his healing hands had worked once again.

That would wait, though. He knew they would still go as soon as they could—this would give them more encouragement to leave—and so he would remain where he was, spending as much time with his friends as he could, unwilling to let them leave with only a note this time.

Yet, when his eyes opened from a slumber he did not remember submitting to, he found a small note folded into his hand.

You spend too much time with that dwarf. He has taught you to snore as badly as Idhrenion does.

I will not ask you to forgive me, though I expect you likely will, you great fool, but I will say that there was little that could have kept me from killing the wizard after I learned of his choice, even as weak as I seem to be now. It would have been his life or mine, if not for Sérëdhiel's plea. She begged for us to leave, and so we have left.

I know you long for the sea, but you will see me before you see it, that I swear, gwador.