Chapters 45 through 52
Title: Legolas’ Gift
Author: Estel Baggins
Original Idea: Elfbean
Author’s Email: macfal1219@comcast.net
Please note: Elfbean does not wish to be contacted anymore.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: rape (explicit)
Summary: Aragorn’s journey back to the light starts harshly, and Elladan goes to seek 
Glorfindel, who has run away. Also, civil war in the Dunedain camp.
Chapter Forty-Five
      The Witch-King efficiently stripped the unconscious man and dropped him off his 
horse. He didn’t care if the man’s neck broke; he only longed to burrow into his victim’s 
tight entrance. If the man was alive when he did this, so much the better, but it wasn’t 
required. Sauron had once promised him the pick of any ass he wanted, but that promise 
didn’t amount to much in Mordor, where orcs were the only truly prolific species, and the 
men that served the Dark Lord were hardened men that had already been spoiled by 
disease. 
      ‘I would rather have a sweet, smooth, unblemished ass to touch,’ the wraith 
reflected as he considered Aragorn’s pristine- though scarred- body. He knew at once that 
the man carried no illness of the flesh, nor one of the mind, and his penis hardened as he 
considered the nearly-virgin skin before him. Perhaps the man was even a virgin in truth. 
It mattered not; he was unspoiled. That was what did.
      Slipping off his horse, the Witch-King dropped to one invisible knee beside the 
man who called himself Strider. Smiling, he vowed, “I will make you call yourself 
Whore before I’m done.”
      He noted with pleasure that not only was the man alive, but he was starting to 
regain consciousness. He was recovering much more quickly than most men, though by 
no means quickly enough to avail him.
      The Witch-King glanced around, knowing that the other wraiths would leave him 
to his pleasure, but unable to resist the second glance.  For caution had been his way of 
half-life for centuries now. When he was sure he was unobserved, he removed his cloak. 
It would terrify the man to be raped by am invisible assailant, the Witch King judged, and 
he was determined to frighten the man as much as possible. The tenser he was, the tighter 
his entrance would be.
      Bending forward, the Witch King kissed Aragorn between his shoulder blades. 
The man cringed and struggled to sit up. ‘Now, none of that,’ the wraith thought as he 
pushed his victim down again.
      The man began to struggle in earnest, his hand going to his side, searching for his 
sword though surely he must realise that he was naked.
      ‘Men are so slow to grasp even the simplest things,’ the wraith reflected as he 
caught his victim’s arm roughly and dragged it, along with the other, above the man’s 
head. He caught both wrists in one hand and fumbled at the man’s ass with the other.
      The man tried to kick, but the Witch King had already slipped between his thighs.
      ‘Amazing how he can still fight, even though I have already stabbed him once. He 
is truly strong.’ The Witch Kind shrugged. ‘He’ll bow to me eventually. They all do.’
      The man whistled for his men, but the Witch King knew he had brought the man 
too far away, and in a direction that no man would think to look. He had carried his 
victim further north, which seemed counter-intuitive.
      The Witch King murmured, “This won’t hurt if you hold still, Whore,” and he 
entered Aragorn in one swift movement.
***
      It was like being raped by an icicle, Aragorn decided as his body was invaded by 
the sharp, savagely cold length. He couldn’t find the breath to scream, let alone whistle, 
and so he merely hung there, feeling the cold spread from his lower belly both upwards 
and downwards. The ice in the creature’s touch made his skin crawl and his stomach 
knot. He refused to groan, refused to acknowledge that he was in pain, that he was afraid, 
that he was human.
      ‘I will accept this, handle it, and move on,’ he thought stubbornly. ‘I’ve never 
been raped before, but it is not the be all and end all of the world. I have others to worry 
about. I will worry about my Rangers and let this go. The thing- the wraith- won’t kill me 
and-’
      Oh, yes, I will. I have killed many men before you, and I will murder many after 
your bones have turned to dust. 
      ‘I didn’t hear that voice,’ Aragorn thought stubbornly, mentally squaring his 
shoulders. ‘There was no voice. I will survive this; I will return to my-’
      Really? I would love to see you escape, even half-alive. If you can do that, I will 
retreat and never bother you again.
      Aragorn struggled a little against the invisible thing on top of him, but the instant 
he moved, a jolt of pain shot up from his entrance, blossomed in his head, and ran 
through his entire body. He opened his mouth to cry out, but caught himself just in time.
      ‘I won’t give it the pleasure of knowing that it hurt me.’
      I already know. And because I know, my kin know. The Nine know, and what we 
know, the Dark Lord will know. Little it will matter to him, surely; he has more 
important things than to think about a dead, nameless man. Still, he will know. And I will 
be sure to tell your men.
      ‘My Rangers!’
      Aragorn gasped for breath. “No!” he tried to scream. To his shame, his cry 
sounded like a plea instead of an order.
      ‘I can’t let it win! I won’t let it win!’
      You have already betrayed yourself. What more is there to do? You can’t undo 
what’s done. Soon, you will submit to me, in your mind as well as with your voice. You 
will name yourself Whore freely in hopes of mercy.
      The Witch laughed triumphantly.
      I will rejoice when you finally bow your head to me, and maybe I’ll even reward 
you for giving in.
      He thrust in again, harder this time, even as he spoke.
      Aragorn was powerless to keep a soft moan from escaping his lips.
      Ah, you moan for me. You must enjoy this. Is that it, Whore? Do you want more? 
Just tell me, and I’ll be glad to give you all I can.
      The unspeakable, frozen icicle inside Aragorn was withdrawn a little, then pushed 
in. As it brushed against Aragorn’s secret gland, the Dunadan cried out as much in horror 
and fear as in pleasure.
      But the pleasure was there, nonetheless, and Aragorn thought the rapist knew that. 
He groaned, ashamed and confused. ‘How can such a thing feel good?’
      ‘It can’t! It can’t!’ his mind howled.
      ‘But it did,’ answered another part of his mind, and Aragorn was shocked to 
realise that this second voice sounded a lot like Legolas’. Would his slave torment him?
      ‘Idiot!’ he rebuked himself. ‘Legolas isn’t here. You’re only condemning 
yourself.’ After a pause, while the creature above him filled him with pain and pleasure 
mixed, Aragorn mind slipped away to a slightly-safer place.
      It was only a little safer because even though he was protected from the outside 
world’s tortures and distractions, there was no place to hide from his conscience. He was 
forced to face several unpleasant truths even as he thanked Elendil for this ability to 
retreat into himself so he could think.
      While his body shivered with pain and fear and pleasure, his penis hardening and 
his lips bloodying as he worried at them with his teeth, Aragorn was made to know these 
things:
      ‘I lied to Legolas. He may be a slave, but I lied to him. Lying to someone who 
trusts you is evil.’
      ‘I must free him. I should have never made him marry Saru. Regardless of the 
justification- Saru’s punishment, protecting Kehydi from being swayed by a slave- I 
should have never dragged Legolas into this.’ In his mind, Aragorn laughed humorlessly. 
‘Besides, those excuses are only shit. I was a fool to believe them anything else.’
      And last, just before he was yanked roughly back to the physical world: ‘I still 
love Legolas. Even if he doesn’t love me- and I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t- I want 
to free him, marry him, and have children with him. Custom doesn’t matter. Dunedain 
law doesn’t matter. Arwen doesn’t matter. I want to marry Legolas.’
*** 
      The Witch King had come inside the man, and yes, the man had screamed, but the 
wraith knew the man’s soul wasn’t in that scream. Snarling, he slapped his victim, even 
as he pulled out and turned the man over. ‘I will make him acknowledge me as lord and 
master,’ he vowed as he watched the man’s eyes clear.
      “You will watch me cut off your balls, Whore,” the Witch King cooed, but the 
smooth confidence was gone from his voice. “Then I will carve out your eyes and put 
your hairy balls in their place. Let’s see if your men want you back like that.” The wraith 
took out his Morgul-blade. 
      ‘I can’t roll aside,’ Aragorn thought, icy calm sheathing him and keeping him 
from total, mindless panic, if only by a hand’s breadth. ‘I can’t escape.’
      For what he thought would be the last time in his life, Aragorn whistled into the 
night, calling his Dunedain to him. He knew there would be danger to them, and he 
wanted nothing more than to protect them, but he also knew (and this was not arrogance, 
but truth) that if he fell, the Shadow would take his people as surely as a babe left out of 
doors in the winter froze to death.
***
      Legolas felt that slight distraction again, but it caught more of his attention this 
time because he wasn’t fighting. He was cleaning his knives and listening to the words 
that flew from man to man among the Dunedain. They were words of caution, words of 
comfort and words of encouragement. But there were a few words of fear; none seemed 
to know where Aragorn was. When Legolas heard this, that distracting feeling made a 
little more sense. He put his spotless knives away and stood still, listening within.
      He remembered the first time the feeling had come and realised that this new 
feeling was clearer, and not just because he was focusing on it. The feeling was stronger, 
more insistent. Why would that be?
      An image, like something seen during a lightning flash, skittered across his mind 
and was gone. But Legolas had recognized it: Aragorn was on that high wall, with the 
abyss on both sides of him. Aragorn was dying.
      Legolas longed to turn away and let Aragorn fall, but the look of shocked 
understanding on the man’s face stopped him. What had Aragorn learned? And what 
would he do with his knowledge?
      Without bothering to tell anyone where he was going, Legolas slipped out of the 
camp. No one noticed him leave.
Chapter Forty-Six
      When Aragorn drew breath to whistle again, he drew the Black Breath into his 
lungs and choked on it. Deprived of oxygen, his mind shut down, plunging him into 
unconsciousness. And once again, as he had not so long ago, Aragorn found himself 
walking along the top of the narrow wall while the hungry abyss called to him from all 
sides.
      ‘I’ve been here before,’ Aragorn thought, glancing around before looking straight 
ahead. The dizzying height didn’t bother him, but he assumed he might be clumsier here 
than in the physical world. ‘Why am I here? Wait… the Witch-King raped me. But that 
wasn’t enough to send me here. He must have knocked me out. And he probably stabbed 
me again as well, or I wouldn’t be on this wall.’

	He considered sitting down on the wall, but then realised that he might not have 
enough balance to lower himself successfully.

	‘This world- this half-death place- is different enough from the physical world 
that I can’t make any assumptions.’

	“Hello, Strider.”

	Aragorn turned quickly, forgetting all that he’d just told himself. He didn’t lose 
his balance, but it was a near thing. However, he did catch himself, and when he was 
standing straight again, he looked at the elf before him.

	Legolas was poised, unconcerned by the chasm, on the very edge of the narrow 
walkway. He smiled at Aragorn as he lifted his hands to the sky.

	“Don’t jump!” Aragorn cried, rushing forward.

	Legolas put out a forbidding hand toward him and answered imperiously, “If you 
don’t stop right there, I will.”

	Aragorn froze. He wanted to ask what Legolas was doing here, and, much more 
important, why he was planning to kill himself, but prudence overcame his initial need to 
know. He waited, assessing how far away Legolas was and weighing the slim chance of 
reaching him against the probability that Legolas could leap just before he was restrained. 
Aragorn had no doubt that Legolas knew about this world, that he could kill himself here 
as surely as in the physical world, and probably with much less pain.

	“So, you can be taught!” Legolas exclaimed, sounding maliciously pleased. “I 
was starting to have serious doubts.” He smiled sardonically at Aragorn, a wholly alien 
expression on his face, and added, “And considering that I trusted you in all things for 
more than twenty years, that’s saying something.”

	Aragorn didn’t answer. Nor did it occur to him that this was other than the true 
Legolas; he knew enough about the half-death place (now that he’d visited it once and 
been reminded of Elrond’s teachings) to know that his mind couldn’t create others to join 
him here.

	“Maybe you’ve learned the talent of holding your tongue too well,” Legolas 
observed, sounding slightly disappointed. “Say something.” He held up his arms again. 
“Say something or I dive.”

	Very aware of his words, knowing that he was fighting for his life as well as 
Legolas’, Aragorn said, “I’m sorry you had to come here. I should not have whistled.”

	“You would rather one of the Dunedain?” Legolas asked. “I’m not good enough?”

	Aragorn swallowed, weighed his next words, then spoke them. “You were always 
good enough. It was only my arrogance that wouldn’t let me see that.”

	Legolas laughed contemptuously. “You expect me to come crawling to you now, I 
suppose. You’ve made your offering, and I’m supposed to come lick your boots like a 
good slave.”

	“There is something I must do,” Aragorn answered, choosing not to answer 
Legolas. “It is something to do with you, but I don’t want to tell you because you won’t 
believe me. It would only seem to be a pretty lie. I want my actions to speak for 
themselves.”

	Legolas shrugged, though he looked a little less haughty. Aragorn was glad to see 
that unnatural expression leave his face. “But you can’t do anything. You’re here. And 
who says I’m going to help you get back?”

	Aragorn nodded, accepting Legolas’ words. “That is true; I cannot get back alone. 
And you don’t have to help me.”

	Legolas smiled thinly. “But I’m your slave,” he said, his voice poisonously sweet. 
“Doesn’t that mean anything?”

	Aragorn resisted the urge to tell Legolas what he wanted to do. “Not here,” he 
answered honestly. “I have no power over anything here. I can’t even control what I’m 
seeing below me, even though this is my mind. You can leave, with or without me, when 
you choose.”

	“Do you care if I leave?” Legolas demanded.

	“Yes. I would be a fool if I didn’t care. But I can’t force you to take me, and I’ve 
hurt you so badly that I would understand if you left me here.” He took a deep breath, 
letting Legolas see that he was gathering his resolve. “Will you take a message to 
Malacai for me?”

	Legolas frowned. “Why should I?”

	“You don’t have to. I’m not ordering you. I only ask.”

	“It depends on what the message is.”

	“It is this: ‘The marriage between Saru and Legolas may be dissolved, if they both 
wish it. Set Saru free, if he wishes it. Let him join with Kehydi, if both wish it. And take 
Legolas as your slave and do what you will with him. Keep him if it suits you, but know 
that I wish him free.’ Will you take it to him, Legolas?”

	Legolas bit his lip. “Wouldn’t you rather give a message about protecting the 
Dunedain against the Shadow?” he asked, trying to sound cold and failing.

	“He already knows that,” Aragorn answered. “But there is one more message I 
would beg you to take to Rivendell, if you would.”

	Legolas folded his arms and tried to glare at Aragorn. “And what is that 
message?”

	“Please tell Glorfindel I’m sorry if I hurt or frightened him. And beg Elrond to let 
Glorfindel go free so that he can marry Elladan.”

	“My, you’re very charitable all of the sudden.”

	“These may be my last words before I die,” Aragorn answered, meeting Legolas’ 
bitter gaze. “If I can’t fix all the other mistakes I’ve made in my life, I want to fix at least 
a few.”

	Legolas turned away, his arms like tree limbs at his sides. “I will give both 
messages.” Then he laughed. “Though I doubt Malacai will believe me. Surely he will 
kill me for what he thinks are self-serving lies.”

	Aragorn fought to sound calm. The air that wafted up from the chasm smelled of 
rotted meat and Aragorn knew that he would find no peace in death. ‘But if I must die, I 
will die honestly, even if I didn’t live honestly.’

      “Take the red stone from the pocket in my left boot,” he told Legolas’ back. “It 
was a present from Malacai. None know about it besides us. If you show him that stone, 
he will believe all you say.”
      
      Legolas turned suddenly and announced, “Malacai is dead. Who should I give the 
message to?”
      
      Aragorn felt sick. The world spun around him and he almost fell. Legolas only 
watched him, his expression unreadable.
      
      “He came when you whistled and the Witch King served him his death-portion.”
      
      Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut.
      
      “Are you hiding?” Legolas asked. His voice was much closer and Aragorn 
realised that the elf was standing very close to him, maybe even within grasping distance.
      
      “I should not have whistled,” Aragorn repeated. “I didn’t think only the two of 
you would come.” Then he shook his head and opened his eyes, looking at Legolas 
sorrowfully. “But of course it would only be a few of you that answered; the camp is still 
under attack, is it not?”
      
      “It is not,” Legolas responded complacently. “The wraiths retreated and the orcs 
followed. That was almost half an hour ago. The Dunedain are still watching the camp, 
but more would have come if more have heard you.”
      
      Aragorn opened his eyes. “What were you both doing so far from the camp?”
      
      “He was looking for you, and I followed.” Legolas turned to gaze out over the 
abyss. “Cheery setting,” he noted conversationally. “When you die, do you just lose your 
balance, or are you overcome with an urge to throw yourself in?”
      
      “Was his death quick?” Aragorn asked, his mouth dry, and it was the Witch 
King’s appetite for sex that he was thinking of.
      
      “Answer my question and I will answer yours,” Legolas responded flatly.
      
      Aragorn frowned- for a moment he couldn’t remember Legolas’ question- then 
answered, “I don’t know about the end. I’ve never died before. And my father’s lore did 
not go farther than just being here.”
      
      “He died quickly, just after seeing that you had been raped. He whispered, ‘My 
Aragorn,’ then he was stabbed. He died while trying to find your pulse.”
      
      The chill in Legolas’ voice hurt Aragorn more than the wraith’s icicle-penis. He 
groaned, but forced himself to say what must be said. “Please tell Annaleh all that I asked 
you to tell my second. And please, I beg you to tell Kehydi that he will have command of 
the Dunedain when Mordecai thinks him ready.”
      
      He was seized by the urge to throw himself to his death, but he could not do that. 
He must make sure that Legolas got out first. Besides, he still wished to die honestly, and 
suicide was not an option.
      
      The man whispered, not realising that he was speaking out loud, “I loved you, 
Malacai. Please find peace in the afterlife. Even if I can’t meet you there, I can still wish 
you that much. Forget about me and only wait for your family.” Tears were trickling 
down his cheeks, but he noticed these no more than he’d noticed his voice in the terrible 
silence of the chasm.
      
      Legolas turned towards him abruptly and grasped him by the wrist. He refused to 
meet Aragorn’s eyes. “Come on,” he ordered. “You’re not dying yet.” He paused, 
frowned, then added, rather hastily, “I don’t want to be the one who explains things to 
Annaleh.” He made as if to go, taking Aragorn with him back to the land of the living, 
but then he glanced over his shoulder. “Brace yourself. The pain will be very bad.”
	
	Aragorn tried to prepare himself, but the pain still swamped him when he came 
back to consciousness. It wasn’t just at his entrance, or inside it, or in his back, where 
he’d been stabbed, but everywhere. How could he hurt so badly and still be alive?

	Pain or no pain, Aragorn had the strength for one wry thought: ‘If I wasn’t hurt 
this badly I would have never found myself on the wall.’
      
      He gritted his teeth and waited for his mind to cope a little with the pain so he 
could see where he was. Besides, his mind had already turned to Malacai. He prayed the 
man was close so he could kiss him on the forehead and speak the words of soothing 
release to his departing soul. 
      
      Slowly, his vision cleared, going from black to a disconcerting gray before 
deciding to give Aragorn what he really needed: useful sight. He blinked (though the 
movement hurt more than he could have ever imagined) and looked up at Legolas.
      
      The blond was staring down at him, a look of detachment flitting across his face, 
to be replaced by a look Aragorn thought he would have been able to read if he was well. 
“You’ve been stabbed several times, and you’re dying from the inside out. Everywhere 
the wraith’s penis touched you, you’re dying. Do you understand?”
      
      ‘If I’m dying, why bother to bring me back?’ Aragorn didn’t ask. He knew he 
didn’t have the strength for such a fruitless question. “Where’s Malacai?” he asked 
instead, hardly recognizing his own voice as it cracked and croaked like the voice of thick 
ice breaking.
      
      “I moved him so I could get to you.” Legolas touched his arm, and Aragorn 
winced. “I’m sure that hurts, but I have to heal you, at least a little. Your heart is racing. 
If it does that much longer, it will stop.”
      
      His clinical delivery of these facts made Aragorn long to weep. ‘Where is my 
strong, brave, beautiful, talented, loving Legolas?’ he mourned.
      
      ‘You killed him.’
      
      ‘Yes, I know.’ Aragorn thought about closing his eyes, but decided he might not 
have the energy to open them again. He asked while Legolas worked, “Will you whistle? 
We aren’t that far from the camp. Or is there danger?”
      
      “I won’t whistle. Not yet. I don’t want…” Legolas suddenly looked away from 
him and a piercing agony shot up from Aragorn’s elbow to his shoulder. “There,” 
Legolas said. “At least you don’t have bones sticking out now.”
      
      ‘What was he about to say?’ Aragorn wondered, but he knew better than to ask. 
He would be foolish to expect a response, and a full-fledged imbecile if he expected that 
answer to be honest.
      
      Aragorn lay quiet, listening to the sounds of the forest and wondering how long it 
had been since he enjoyed nature’s music without listening for the approach of an enemy. 
‘Too long,’ he decided at last, giving up, ‘and it will be longer still. Even now, weak as I 
am, I am listening for the return of the wraiths.’
      
      Legolas’ hands touched his throat suddenly and the pain bloomed there, strangling 
Aragorn. The man resisted the urge to pull away. Whatever Legolas was healing, it would 
be easier to tend if his patient didn’t move. But his body, already suffering, needed the 
oxygen so badly, and Aragorn felt himself slipping towards unconsciousness. He fought 
as best he could, concentrating on the pain in his throat in order to keep himself awake. 
This helped somewhat, though his head was buzzing and dark spots were dancing in front 
of his eyes.
      At last, the pain ebbed and Legolas sat back. “Your heart should slow in a minute 
or two.” He gazed at Aragorn for a moment, and the Ranger still found it impossible to 
read his expression. “Now I need to heal you inside.” His lip curled, and Aragorn could 
easily read this expression: disgust. “Though I don’t know why I should bother. True, 
your men wouldn’t be able to heal you, but that doesn’t mean I should. You haven’t 
helped me much lately.”
      Aragorn didn’t answer, but watched Legolas. Instinct told him that Legolas was 
feigning his disgust and making excuses to fuel his anger. ‘He hates me, and I understand 
that… but he doesn’t hate me quite as much as he wants me to believe.’
      Instead of encouraging him, this realisation made Aragorn feel sick to his 
stomach. ‘I was good to him before, yes, but he is very strong if he can still hold any 
visage of caring towards me.’
      He refused to be awed into immobility. He refused to be distracted by this truth. 
Instead, he vowed, ‘I will free Legolas and return him to his people. I will fix everything 
I have fouled and heal everyone that I’ve injured. Failing that, I will at least give them the 
means to heal themselves.’
      “Are you ready?” Legolas asked.
      “Will this hurt you?” Aragorn returned, meeting Legolas’ gaze once more.
      Legolas laughed cheerlessly. “I’m not a weak man; I am an elf.” And without 
further comment, he slipped two fingers deep into Aragorn’s entrance.
***
      Elladan curled onto his side, snuggling into his blankets. “Mmmmm… 
Glorfindel…” he mumbled contentedly.
      Elrohir, asleep in the chair beside the bed, didn’t hear this, but snored, a frown on 
his face and his hands, even in such a deep sleep, balled into fists.
      While he slept, Elladan dreamed.
      He was gliding high above the empty, yet beautiful, land of Hollin. He flexed his 
arms and discovered that they were wings. Rejoicing in this revelation, he soared higher, 
catching an updraft and rising on it. He glanced up and saw that the sky was turning 
golden behind him, to the west, and was darkening before him as night crept over the 
horizon.
      The eldest son of Elrond had always loved evening time. When he discovered that 
Glorfindel loved to linger under a tree and watch the stars appear, he had been so excited 
it was almost embarrassing. Glorfindel, seeing his joy, had asked, “What is it, love?” 
Elladan had answered, laughing, “I love when Arda exchanges day for night; it’s the most 
beautiful time.”
       Now Elladan flexed his wings and looked down. Far, far below, certainly too far 
to be spotted even by elven sight, he spied a rider. ‘I must be a hawk,’ he thought as he 
beat his wings, gliding lower to take a better look. ‘A hawk, or maybe an eagle.’
      As he neared the rider, he saw the golden hair that flowed out over a gray, elven 
cloak. More curious now, Elladan descended even more. Now he could see the white 
horse, and when he saw the way the elf rode, his head bent, but the rest of his form 
straight and sure in the saddle, he knew who it was.
      “Glorfindel!” he tried to call, but all that emerged from his mouth (beak) was an 
eagle’s pure, exalted cry.
      The elf raised his head and smiled sadly at him. Crystalline tears had dried on his 
cheeks and his smile soon faded. But he lifted a hand to the eagle and Elladan heard him 
call, “Friend, take news to Imladris. Tell my love I miss him.” Then he looked away and 
the stallion moved smoothly from a canter into an all-out gallop.
      Elladan tried to beat his wings to stay with the horse, but they no longer seemed 
to belong to him. He watched, grief-stricken, as the horse and rider grew smaller and 
smaller. Then they disappeared entirely as the eagle reversed its course, flying now 
towards the fiery, blinding heart of the setting sun.
      “No!” Elladan screamed, but nothing came out this time, not even an eagle’s call.
      The sun seemed to be growing larger and Elladan tried to squeeze his eyes shut 
against its painful glare. He couldn’t even do that, and as the sun’s light overwhelmed 
him, he cried out helplessly.
      The son of Elrond awoke with a start. He sat up so suddenly that Elrohir, who had 
been moving slowly towards consciousness, came awake with a start and nearly fell out 
of his chair.
      Elladan looked around wildly for a moment, then met Elrohir’s gaze as his brother 
touched his shoulder.
      “Elladan!” Elrohir exclaimed, relieved. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”
      Elladan frowned. “What time is it?” he asked.
      Elrohir stared at him, then laughed. “You’ve been asleep all night. It’s morning.”
      “Where’s Glorfindel?” Elladan demanded, swinging his legs out of bed. He noted 
that he was dressed in a short tunic and leggings and stood, turning towards his closet.
      Elrohir grasped at his arm, but Elladan shook him off. The younger twin had to be 
content with following his brother across the room. “Elladan, you can’t be walking! You 
just woke up!”
      “Don’t you get right out of bed in the morning?” Elladan snapped, his unease 
rising.
      “Yes… Well, but you were hurt last night and-”
      “And I’m fine now,” Elladan answered, flinging open the closet door and 
grabbing a hunting tunic, dark leggings and his boots. As he turned away from the closet, 
he assessed Elrohir’s condition, and decided to try his question one more time before 
giving up and going to hunt for Glorfindel alone. “Where’s Glorfindel?”
      Elrohir shook his head and followed Elladan back to the bed. “I don’t know. He 
ran away after bringing you back to Imladris.” Even his shock at Elladan’s sudden 
assertiveness couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. “He’s probably halfway to 
Mirkwood or the Grey Havens by now.”
      “He’s headed south,” Elladan answered as he cast off his sleeping tunic. He 
swiftly donned the new one. “Or that’s what I believe.” As he pulled off his leggings, he 
met Elrohir’s look of consternation. “Why did he leave?”
      Elrohir shook his head helplessly. “How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”
      “Did you say anything to him?” Elladan was pulling on the fresh leggings. His 
mind wasn’t really on Elrohir’s answer; he was thinking of saddling his mare and riding 
south as soon as possible. There was a chance that he could still overtake Glorfindel.
      ‘And how do I know that it wasn’t just a dream? How can I know that what I saw 
will come to pass?’
      But the certainty was too well-established in his heart; he simply knew that 
Glorfindel had ridden south, and that an eagle would spot him at sunset. ‘I will meet the 
eagle on my way,’ Elladan thought, ‘for Hollin is a good six hours’ ride. Maybe I can 
convince him- or her- to slow Glorfindel so I can catch him.’
      Another question surfaced. ‘Why is he riding away from Rivendell?’
      But the answer was simple: something (or someone) either frightened him or 
convinced him that it was for the best. ‘Perhaps he even went to seek help from 
Grandmother, thinking that I was badly hurt.’ He didn’t believe this even as he tried to 
tell himself the lie. ‘He was frightened and confused. I must find him before…’ Elladan 
shook his head, unwilling to think too deeply about the what-ifs. ‘Before anything 
happens.’
      Elrohir answered his question then, and Elladan dragged himself back to reality 
with some difficulty. “I did, but only after he said he had to leave. He said there was 
something he had to do.”
      “Probably warning Estel,” Elladan mused as he shoved his foot into a leather 
boot. “But then why would he go south?” He tugged the second boot on and stood, 
slipping into it effortlessly.
      Knowing that he wouldn’t get an answer to his question if- until- he found 
Glorfindel, Elladan let it go. He stood, gathered up his bow, quiver and knives, then faced 
Elrohir. “I’m leaving. Come if you want, but don’t hinder me.” Without bothering to see 
if his twin was going to follow, Elladan strode quickly from the room.
      Elrohir stared after him for a moment, then, realizing that Elladan meant to leave 
with or without him, he chased after his older brother. ‘If he’s going to leave Imladris- 
and with the Nine still out there, don’t forget- I must follow him.’
      He wondered what would happen if they managed to catch up with Glorfindel, 
then pushed the idea away. It made him angry. ‘If Elladan gets hurt chasing after that 
whore, I’ll- I’ll-’ Elrohir sighed. ‘I’ll worry about this later,’ he told himself firmly.
      Less than five minutes later, the sons of Elrond rode out of Imladris, Elrohir still 
trailing after Elladan.
      From his window, Elrond watched them go. His heart rejoiced to see Elladan 
awake and well, but his mind was full of misgivings. He considered sending guards with 
them, but knew he wouldn’t. ‘Whatever is happening, it is in their hands.’ And, whether 
he liked that fact or not, it was the truth.
***
      It had been ridiculously easy, Legolas thought, to hurt the wraith.
      When he had approached the clearing, using all of his hard-learned Dunedain 
stealth as well as his natural elven grace to move absolutely silently, he saw at once that 
the Witch-King was alone. The other wraiths were near, perhaps only half a mile off, but 
that was a great enough distance to assure Legolas that he could do what needed to be 
done. Quickly, in the shadow and shelter of a tall oak, he kindled a fire. The Witch-King 
was gloating and grunting over his victim, so he never suspected a thing.
      With his torch burning briskly, Legolas crept into the clearing. Just as he slipped 
out of the last bit of cover, Aragorn whistled loud and long. The sound startled Legolas so 
badly that he nearly dropped the torch. He thought the wraith would look around to see if 
anyone was coming. But, no, the Nazgul had other ideas. He bent close to Aragorn’s face, 
and when the man took in a breath to whistle again, the Black Breath overwhelmed him.
      Legolas leapt as the Witch-King gloried in the seeming death of its victim. 
Legolas plunged his weapon into the middle of the wraith’s semi-solid back. As the 
wraith burst into flame, Legolas shouted, “Rangers, now!”
      That was all the Witch-King needed to hear. Shrieking its awful noise, it fled 
without looking back.
      Legolas had let it go, bending over Aragorn. The Rangers hadn’t come when he 
called. Why should they? He had left the camp alone, and none had followed.
***
      ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told him Malacai is dead,’ Legolas thought as he healed 
Aragorn. But it had felt good to hurt Aragorn for once, and Legolas had enjoyed seeing 
the stricken look on his master’s face. ‘Now you know how I felt when you told me I was 
going to be your slave “a little longer” and that I must play the whore- no matter the 
legal, sentimental term of marriage- to Saru.’ He shook his head. ‘As he was made to 
play the whore to me.’
      He glanced at Aragorn now and, though the man’s face was twisted with pain, his 
eyes were turned inward and Legolas sensed that he had wrought a terrible sadness upon 
the man.
      ‘I don’t know if I wanted to hurt him this badly,’ he whispered mentally to his 
malicious side.
      ‘He has tortured you. Why can’t you torture him a little?’
      ‘He was only doing what he thought was best…’
      ‘Don’t ever believe that! Aragorn may not have been purposely hurting you, but 
he was serving his own interests- and the interests of the Shadow. Don’t doubt that he 
knew the evil he was causing, even if he tried to hide it from himself.’
      Legolas’ fingers touched some of the Witch-King’s sperm and it stung like weak 
acid on his skin. He didn’t remove his hand. ‘I have to heal him,’ he told his malicious 
side before that worthy could urge him to leave Aragorn in pain. ‘If I don’t, he won’t be 
able to give the order to have Saru, at least, set free. If I’m not going to be free, I want 
Saru to be. I want him to be happy.’
      ‘But you will never be happy, Legolas. Even if he’d promised to set you free- 
which he didn’t- you can’t trust him. You know that very well. So why are you helping 
him? Surely he won’t help Saru; have you forgotten how easily he dragged Saru and 
Kehydi apart, with no remorse?’
      Gradually, the burning sensation on his fingers faded, and Aragorn was relaxing 
slightly. His eyes did not lose that murkily in-turned look, however. If anything, the look 
deepened as the distraction of physical pain was lessened.
      ‘He’s pitying himself,’ that second voice announced sardonically. ‘He isn’t fit to 
lead the Dunedain. See how easily he fell into the Shadow? Not only was he touched by 
the Dark Lord when he was in Gondor, but now he has served one of His servants 
sexually! He can’t possible heal from that! And even if he recovered his wits, he might 
decide- and probably would- that he liked the power he has as the Dark Lord’s servant.’
      ‘He was raped!’ Legolas argued. ‘How could he think he has power?’
      ‘He must have some power, or you wouldn’t be here helping him. I thought you 
hated him.’
      ‘I do!’ Legolas nearly pulled his hand away from Aragorn, but he forced himself 
to keep it there. ‘I want him strong again, to see if he will really set Saru free. If he does, 
that’s well and good. I can go back to hating my master in peace, and waiting for the day 
of freedom that will never come. But if he doesn’t, I will kill him.’
      His other half chuckled; Legolas could almost see his gleeful grin. ‘Then you’ll 
have the pleasure of telling Malacai that his beloved Strider is dead. And this time there 
would be no lie.’
      “Legolas?”
      The elf jumped slightly, and as his fingers scraped against Aragorn’s sensitive 
flesh, the man winced.
      “What?” the elf tried to snap. But it came out in a very meek, guilty voice.
      “Please stop healing me for the moment. Please, I must bless Malacai so that he 
can pass in peace.”
      “You would never show me such courtesy.”
      Aragorn didn’t argue. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Legolas, but please let me help 
him.” The man looked up at him imploringly and tears made his eyes bright.
      Legolas opened his mouth to answer, but then he heard the sound of running feet. 
He glanced up quickly, and when he saw the flash of a grey cloak through the trees, he 
whistled.
      The grey shape stopped, then rushed towards him. Others followed. Six Rangers 
burst through the underbrush, leaping bushes in their urgency.
      Malacai led them.
      Legolas felt his stomach flip flop. ‘Forget about suffering in silence and hating 
my master from a distance. Surely I’ll be killed for this bit of deception.’
      Malacai skidded to his knees at Aragorn’s side, taking his chief’s hand. But the 
face he looked into was slack with sleep. Aragorn had passed out.
      “Aii, my Aragorn, my Strider, my Dunadan,” the second in command mourned. 
“You must not die, Aragorn; not now, when the enemy has been driven away.” Without 
looking at Legolas, he asked, “What happened?”
      Legolas didn’t answer. He knew he would be punished for remaining silent, but 
he didn’t care at the moment. He stood and took a step back.
      ‘Maybe I could run,’ he thought wildly.
      A hand fell on his shoulder and Legolas jumped for the second time in as many 
minutes.
      Kehydi whispered, “Saru needs you. He was injured in battle. Will you come back 
and tend him? Father says that he will live, but I want an elf’s hands on him.”
      “Don’t you care about him?” Legolas found himself asking as he gestured at 
Aragorn.
      “Aye, I do; but my father and the others will heal him. And besides, Aragorn is 
strong; Saru is not. Please come, Legolas.”
      Legolas was worried about his friend, but he was also glad that he could escape 
the immediate area. He followed Kehydi back to the camp.
Chapter Forty-Seven
      The sun was near the horizon when they rode, side by side, across Hollin’s open 
country. In the far distance, the mountains rose, grey and hazy. But closer, Elladan had 
already spotted the eagle from his dream. He didn’t doubt that it was the same eagle, even 
though he hadn’t seen it when he was asleep. It was painting circles in the sky. Elladan 
whistled to it, knowing it would here him. Elrohir glanced at him in surprise, but didn’t 
comment. He had kept his peace since they left Rivendell, sensing that Elladan might 
simply gallop away as fast as possible if he, Elrohir, objected or made any other fuss.
      ‘Well, I wanted him healed,’ Elrohir thought wryly, almost bitterly. ‘I guess I 
can’t complain.’ But he found that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Elladan acting in 
this new way. He wasn’t exactly like the old Elladan: poet, healer, sometimes fighter. He 
was more like… ‘Why not be honest? He’s more like me now. Quick to act, passionate, 
wild… I miss him being steady, quietly-strong Elladan.’
      He bit his lip. That wasn’t all, though, was it? There was something more to his 
feelings of bitterness. ‘I miss taking care of him,’ Elrohir admitted, and was ashamed. 
‘Now I know the joy he got out of helping Arwen and raising Estel. I miss having 
someone to take care of.’ He shook his head, trying to push away all these unsettling 
thoughts. ‘This is selfish and stupid. Am I saying I want my brother to be weak so I can 
take care of him and feel better?’
      He shivered, and whispered, humiliation reddening his cheeks, “Yes.”
      To distract himself, if only a little, he asked silently, ‘Who healed Nana when 
after we rescued her? Ada did, yes, but who stayed with her during the day, sang her 
songs and told her stories?’
      Sighing, Elrohir admitted, ‘Elladan.’
      ‘I wonder if he knows how much it meant to me to be able to shield him for once, 
to… well, to make up for all the times he had to be the strong one? Probably not…. but 
maybe. Elladan never missed much, at least not before he was attacked. And surely now 
he misses nothing.’
      Elrohir resolved that he wouldn’t let himself act on his bitterness. ‘Elladan is 
healed now; go back to being the wild, fiery brother and maybe Elladan will settle down. 
Once he has Glorfindel back, he’ll probably slip back into his old ways.’  And with that 
thought, Elrohir realised that he wouldn’t be able to act out his anger on Glorfindel 
anymore. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, releasing his rage. ‘I’ll have to 
apologize, surely, but I’ll do that if it means having Elladan back the way he was.’
      Morosely, he added, ‘And now I am truly alone, without even the passing 
pleasure of sex to protect me.’
      The eagle called suddenly, rending the air, and Elrohir was startled out of his dark 
thoughts. The eagle was flying low, staying close to them, and yet it let them onwards. 
‘Glorfindel is still up ahead somewhere,’ Elrohir realised.
      Abruptly, Elladan reined in his horse. Ahead of them, the eagle gave an impatient 
call, but waited, circling and shooting seemingly irritated glances at them.
      Elrohir stopped beside his brother, but before he could ask what was wrong, 
Elladan demanded, “Are you listening to me, Elrohir?”
      The twin nodded. “Aye, Elladan,” he answered quietly.
      “You will not speak to Glorfindel unless I ask you to,” Elladan began. “Whatever 
is wrong, he’s fragile right now and doesn’t need you frightening him.”
      These were words similar to the ones Elrohir had spoken to Glorfindel after the 
eldest son of Elrond, newly rescued from the Southron men, had arrived back in Imladris 
on Elrohir’s horse. Elrohir gaped at his brother. “You heard that?” he asked, his surprise 
mastering his tongue.
      Elladan flipped a hand dismissively. “I wasn’t unconscious, Elrohir, only stunned 
and afraid, as you well know. Now promise me you will take the advice you forced on 
Glorfindel.” His severe expression eased minutely and he added in a gentler tone, “I don’t 
order you, but I ask you, Brother. Will you do this for me?”
      Elrohir felt sudden tears sting at his eyes but he blinked them away. “Yes, 
Elladan. I promise I’ll be quiet. I won’t frighten him.”
      Elladan touched Elrohir’s arm, smiling, relieved. “Come on, let’s-”
      A wraith’s scream split the air.
      Elladan urged his mount into a gallop, heading towards the chilling sound. It 
came from ahead of them, from the direction the eagle had been leading them.
      ‘Didn’t we just do this? Will this nightmare never end?’ Elrohir complained to no 
one as he raced after his brother. As the watchful, wary cloak of the hunter descended 
over his senses, he vowed, ‘I won’t let them hurt Elladan this time. And if that means 
protecting Glorfindel, too, so be it.’ 
***
      Legolas was smiling when Saru opened his eyes. It was late afternoon, and golden 
light lay in a warm puddle at the tent’s mouth. Legolas had left the flap open, needing the 
light and wanting the fresh air to reach his friend.
      Saru smiled back, though he was still a little out of it. “Legolas?”
      The elf nodded. “Aye, it’s me. How do you feel?”
      Saru paused, considering. “Light-headed,” he answered at last. Then he looked 
anew at Legolas and added, “And confused. You’ve changed. What is it?”
      Legolas squeezed Saru’s shoulder and bent closer so he could whisper, “Kehydi 
loves you. He told me so.”
      Saru’s eyes widened, and he tried to ask a question.
      Legolas put a finger to his lips. “Listen. After you were hurt, Kehydi came to find 
me.”
      Saru’s mind was still reeling with the news that Kehydi loved him again, but as 
Legolas’ words penetrated his happy daze, he asked, “But wouldn’t Master Aragorn…” 
The younger slave shook his head. “He wasn’t worried about me, surely.” His voice was 
completely devoid of reproach. “He had Dunedain to tend.”
      “Aragorn isn’t tending anyone right now,” Legolas answered, a mixture of 
concern and smugness in his voice. “He was raped by the Witch King.” Smugness won 
out for a moment, and he added, “Now he knows what it feels like.”
      But instead of being amused or satisfied, Saru looked horrified. “Is he all right?”
      Legolas sighed in mild frustration. After all, he knew Saru too well to expect 
maliciousness from him. “Saru, how can you worry about him?”
      “Is he all right?” Saru repeated.
      “Yes,” Legolas answered unenthusiastically. “Malacai is tending him.” He added, 
not wanting to give the Dunadan credit, but knowing Saru would want to know, “He 
came in here about an hour ago to check on you, and he asked me to stay with you until 
you were strong again.”
      Saru’s face lit up. “He still cares for me,” he whispered.
      “I don’t see why he should have ever stopped,” Legolas groused.
      Saru didn’t bother to answer him. ‘I might as well try to explain to a bird why 
flying is impossible for men.’ There were certain truths about slavery that Legolas would 
just never learn. Instead, he asked, “Where’s Kehydi?”
      “Out on patrol. He wanted to stay here, but there were enough Dunedain injured 
that every able-bodied man is needed at the camp’s edge.” Legolas was looking past Saru 
now, and his friend realised that the elf’s mind was far away.
      ‘He’s probably thinking about Master Aragorn… even though he would almost 
die before admitting that.’ Saru touched his stomach, feeling the reassuring swell of his 
belly, and smiled. ‘There is still time for everything to come right.’ In his contentment, he 
forgot that the child might be Halbarad’s. All that mattered right then was that there was 
time to figure things out.
***
      Aragorn stirred, shifting from unconsciousness to wakefulness instantly. He knew 
two things even before he opened his eyes. He was alive- his entrance still ached, though 
it no longer flared- and he was in a tent. On a pallet.
	He opened his eyes and saw Malacai slumped against the tent’s side, fast asleep. 
Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat. His second was most definitely alive, his chest 
rising and falling. And there were no wounds on him.
	‘Legolas lied to me!’ But instead of feeling angry, Aragorn was overcome with 
relief. A few tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them away. Seeing Malacai 
alive and well filled him with so much joy that there was no room for rage or bitterness.
      Aragorn studied his second, enjoying the fact that he could watch Malacai while 
he slept. He hadn’t had the opportunity to do so since before Malacai and Annaleh were 
married. In the man’s lap lay a sprig of athelas, and there was more in the jar nearby. 
Now Aragorn registered the herb’s distinctive, comforting scent, but it wasn’t quite as 
strong as it would have been if he, the Heir of Isildur, had used the herb. Still, it was 
powerful enough to be soothing, and Aragorn had no doubt that the herb had much to do 
with his recovery.
      Aragorn’s eyes traveled up from Malacai’s lap and settled on his face. The 
Dunadan chief reveled in the joy of watching Malacai’s lips move slightly as he dreamed. 
He smiled at the beauty of Malacai’s weathered face, noting the scar that had been given 
to the second by a drunken Bree man. ‘The two of us were in Bree to investigate a string 
of murders,’ Aragorn recalled, his smile dropping away for a moment. ‘We were in the 
Prancing Pony, keeping our eyes on one suspect when the drunken fool challenged 
Malacai by slashing at him with a broken bottle.’ Aragorn shook his head, marveling at 
how much time had passed since he and his second were young men. ‘If Malacai hadn’t 
acted quickly, he would have lost his eye.’
      ‘He must be waiting for me to wake up,’ Aragorn thought, and he grinned. 
‘Malacai, you are a wonder.’
      Thoughts of Legolas flitted across his mind, but Aragorn resolved he would carry 
out his plans as soon as he was well enough to do so.
      He turned his mind back to his second, and was still watching him when Malacai 
woke up.
      As Aragorn had, Malacai shifted from sleep to full awareness instantly. He sat up 
and crossed to Aragorn, grinning, his eyes shining with relief. “Aii, Strider, why do you 
delight in torturing us?” he teased, kneeling beside the pallet so he could check his chief’s 
pulse.
      Aragorn chuckled softly. “If I had known it would make you so overjoyed to see 
me awake, I would have stayed asleep a little longer to add to the suspense.” It felt so 
good to tease his second again, and Aragorn forgot all the panic he’d felt when Legolas 
told him this close, most trusted friend was dead. “I could even sleep now, if you’d like, 
and so add to your worry.”
      Malacai bent forward and kissed Aragorn gently on the lips. “Don’t you dare,” he 
whispered fiercely. “I don’t ever want to be that frightened again.”
      Aragorn gaped at him for a moment, then gathered his wits. Firmly, he said, 
“Malacai, you didn’t mean that kiss.” He glared as best he could at his second.
      Malacai stared back at him, unembarrassed and unrepentant. “Normally, the 
Dunedain give blessings on the forehead, correct?” he asked instead.
      “Yes,” Aragorn answered shortly, unsure where this was going. He continued to 
meet his second’s gaze, wanting to know what he was thinking.
      “Those are very intimate blessings, shared between a chief and his closest 
captains, or between family members. True?”
      Aragorn nodded.
      Malacai leaned closer but didn’t kiss Aragorn again. “Forgive me, Aragorn, but I 
have always thought of you as one of my family, whether we are sharing the same bed or 
not. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. I had to kiss you. And as intimate as 
blessing you on the forehead is, it just didn’t seem enough to show how glad I am to see 
you again. I love Annaleh, and I have no desire to turn from her, but I was so 
frightened…” His voice broke a little and he drew back slightly, steadying himself. “I 
love you, Aragorn. I only wanted you to know.”
      Now he did blush, and that reassured Aragorn a little. “I’m sorry if I offended 
you, my Captain. The dramatic gesture was completed without true intervention of my 
mind. Only my heart acted.”
      Aragorn caught Malacai’s hand and tugged at it until his second looked at him. 
“Malacai, I’m not angry. I was only surprised.” He smiled. “And flattered. How can you 
kiss your chief now? I’m so old.”
      Malacai grinned. “I forgot how old, how gruff and how dangerous you look, 
Strider,” he teased, his eyes sparkling.
      Aragorn smiled wryly. “Aye, Black-Eyes, I am a sight.” He sobered then and the 
grin slipped from Malacai’s face in response to the sudden change. “Where is Legolas?”
      “With Saru. Legolas is healing him.”
      Aragorn started to sit up, but Malacai urged him to lay flat. “You’re not ready to 
sit up yet,” the second-in-command admonished. “Your back isn’t healed.”
      Aragorn sighed. “Tell me about his injuries.”
      Malacai told him, ending with, “He lost a lot of blood, but between the care I gave 
him and Legolas’ tending, he’ll be fine. I would be surprised if he wasn’t awake by now. 
He’ll probably be in bed for a few days, though.” He looked deeply into Aragorn’s eyes. 
“What are you thinking?”
      Aragorn smiled, though ruefully. “I can’t hide anything from you.” Quickly, in a 
low voice, in case anyone poked their head in, he told Malacai his plan.
      The second-in-command was silent after Aragorn finished. His chief waited 
expectantly, knowing Malacai was only collecting his thoughts.
      At last, Malacai murmured, “You’re out from under the Shadow, then.” There 
was hope in his voice, but he still searched Aragorn’s eyes, and there was a touch of fear 
in his gaze. He hadn’t realised that Aragorn was being affected by the Enemy. It hurt his 
heart and his pride to think that Aragorn had been in such danger and he, Malacai, hadn’t 
realised it. ‘I was too lost in my own battle,’ he thought, and even though it was the truth, 
he was ashamed of himself. ‘Battle or no battle, I should have been here for him.’ He 
sighed in frustration. ‘Well, all I can do now is make sure I’m never that distracted 
again.’
      “Yes,” Aragorn answered tiredly, “though I would be a fool to think that the Dark 
Lord will give up his hold on me so easily. The next few years will be nothing if not a 
struggle as he tries to regain what he lost.” He let these grave words hang in the air before 
adding, “But at least I know, by myself and for myself, that he can control me so 
indirectly and so thoroughly. I will be on my guard now.”
      Malacai asked, “When will you tell them?”
      “As soon as I’m strong enough. I want to be able to tell them, then be ready to 
saddle my horse and carry out my plan. Will you come with me? Kehydi can stay here, 
with Mordecai to guide him through his first short-term command. He’s nineteen now, 
correct?”
      “Twenty,” Malacai answered, smiling fondly. “Though it seems like only 
yesterday when he was teething on my most prized leather belt.”
      Aragorn chuckled. “In any case, it is high time that he had his first command.”
      Malacai nodded, accepting this. “I think he’s ready. And with Saru-”
      Aragorn held up a hand, silencing him. “I don’t want anyone to hear.”
      Malacai nodded solemnly, though his eyes twinkled. “I think Annaleh should 
come as well. She and Legolas have always trusted each other….” He trailed off, 
realising where he had almost gone with that statement.
      “It will make Legolas more comfortable if she is there,” Aragorn agreed. He 
closed his eyes. “I’m tired, Malacai. I think I’ll sleep again.” He opened his eyes and 
fixed his second with a piercing stare. “And you will also sleep, on a pallet and not 
against the canvas. Promise me, Malacai.”
      The man paused, considering. He never made a promise, especially to Aragorn, 
unless he knew he would keep it. At last, he gave in. He was exhausted. He would send 
Aaron in here to watch over their chief. “I promise.”
      Aragorn nodded, and his eyes closed once more. “I want to keep my plans a 
secret. Please don’t speak of them to anyone, not even to Annaleh. Others might 
overhear.”
      “Yes, Aragorn. I understand.”
      Aragorn snored lightly, already asleep.
      Malacai grinned, then yawned. ‘Sleep definitely sounds good.’ He left Aragorn’s 
tent, searching for Aaron. It had been a very long two days.
Chapter Forty-Eight
      “Why would they attack, then just leave? This has got to be a trick!”
      “Aaron, calm yourself. There is no need to shout.”
      Aaron rounded on Jamien. “I hate it when you act so all-knowing!” he snapped. 
“The Dunedain are falling apart and you don’t see-”
      Jamien laughed, his head back and his shoulders shaking.
      Aaron glared. “What’s wrong with you?” he roared.
      “You,” Jamien snickered. He struggled for another moment, then composed 
himself. “The Dunedain are not falling apart. Why do you have to be so melodramatic? 
It’s not going to help you get anywhere.”
      Aaron demanded as he lifted his hands to claw at the air in helpless frustration, 
“Can’t you see the signs? Aragorn is hurt. He might even die. And the Enemy has a 
foothold here. I don’t exactly understand it, but I know it’s true. It’s in the way we look at 
each other, the way we weren’t able to protect Aragorn.”
      “The only thing it’s ‘in’, Aaron, is your fear-mongering. You’ll have us all 
running around like chickens with no heads.” Jamien sat on a log, his hands folded 
complacently on his lap and gazed up at the raving Ranger before him. “And for crying 
out loud, keep your voice down. Half the camp can hear you. Maybe even Aragorn can 
hear you. Do you want him to think you don’t have any faith in him?”
      “It’s not Aragorn I don’t trust,” Aaron snapped, not bothering to lower his voice. 
“It’s all of us. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust you. And I don’t trust what the Enemy 
might have done to Aragorn. If we don’t stop whatever’s happening, we’ll all fall into the 
Shadow.” He shuddered a little. “Or worse, we’ll run into the Shadow willingly.” He sat 
down abruptly on the ground, dropping his head into his hands. “That’s what I’m really 
afraid of, Jamien. I’m afraid we’ll want the Shadow after a time. Living out here… 
defending those who don’t care about us…” He shook his head. “No. It’s not that. It’s 
just… Oh, I can’t describe it!” he cried at last.
      “That’s because it’s fear-mongering and has no basis in fact,” Jamien answered.
      “No,” countered a ragged, exhausted voice, and the two men looked up in 
surprise, “it’s instinct. And there aren’t always facts behind instinct.” Aragorn drew in a 
great breath and leaned a little more on Mordecai. “You’re right that we need to do 
something, Aaron. The danger is too great. And the first thing we need to do is get rid of 
the Shadow within our camp.”
      The two had risen, and Jamien held a hand out to his chief, as if to offer him 
support. Aragorn waved the gesture away. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he 
struggled to stay on his feet.
      “But how can we?” Aaron asked despairingly. “To do that, we would all have to 
die. ‘In the hearts of men lies weakness.’ Didn’t Elendil say that?”
      Aragorn nodded. “Aye, he did.” He drew in a deep breath, but nearly choked on 
it. Mordecai was supporting him almost entirely now.
      Others of the Dunedain had gathered around to hear their chief, and to see if he 
was truly alive. They all saw how weak he was, and a shiver ran through them. None 
spoke, needing to hear his words. Aragorn’s coughing and his dependence on Mordecai 
for strength told them all that these might be their chief’s last words.
      Aragorn drew himself up, nodding at Mordecai gratefully. He stood on his own, 
his shoulders squared and his face set. “But Elendil also said this: ‘In the hearts of men 
lies strength such as has never been unleashed in Arda. And it is those-” he wheezed- 
“words, Aaron, that we will be following.”
      He held out a hand to Mordecai and the man lent him support once more, though 
not so much as before. “Legolas, Saru, Kehydi, are you here?” he asked without looking 
around.
      Kehydi came at once, his arm wrapped tightly around Saru’s waist. Legolas 
followed, but his face said plainly that he didn’t want to approach.
      When they stood before him (Aaron and Jamien had stepped back), Aragorn 
declaimed, “Hear me, Dunedain.”
      “We hear,” rustled through the ranks that had gathered around him. All of them 
had assembled. Those that had been resting had been awakened, and even the youngest 
babe was in its mother’s arms.
      “Slavery is an evil. It was wrong when my ancestor, Arador, brought it here. And 
I was wrong to encourage it. Slavery does not exist here anymore.” He was leaning on 
Mordecai a little more now, and Mordecai put his arm around his chief’s waist, slipping 
Aragorn’s arm over his shoulders.
      “Those former slaves who wish to go home- or to find a different home than here- 
will be assisted to do so. They will be given clothing and weapons worthy of freeborns 
and will be given enough money to ensure their way until they can make a way for 
themselves. Those who wish to stay will be called Dunedain. I would be honored to call 
all of you my brothers and sisters.”
      He gasped suddenly and winced, his hand dropping to his crotch. His eyes lost 
their focus for a moment, but then he ground his teeth, and everyone sensed him 
gathering his enormous will. At last, he stood straight, and his hand fell back to his side. 
“Please hear me, Dunedain,” he rasped.
      “We hear,” they whispered back.
      “Saru, please come stand before me.”
      Saru took a step back, but he felt Kehydi’s arm tighten about his waist.
      “It will be all right,” Kehydi murmured. Even though he spoke quietly, many 
heard him because the silence among the men and women of the circle was so complete.
      Saru, biting his lip, approached Aragorn slowly. His hands were shaking, and all 
saw this. They also saw that he had begun to show. His belly was swollen out a little, and 
one of his hands moved to it as though he wished to protect his child. When he reached 
Aragorn, he made as if to kneel, but Aragorn stopped him.
      “No, Saru, you will not do thus.” Aragorn gestured to Mordecai and the healer 
helped him to kneel before the former slave. Aragorn took Saru’s hand from his belly. 
“The child is yours, Saru. None will hurt it,” he announced, his breath whistling now. 
“But that is not why I called you. I want to apologize for all the pain I have caused you.” 
He released Saru’s hand, freed himself from Mordecai’s supporting hand, and fell 
forward on his face.
      The Dunedain as one made as if to move, but Malacai, who had moved as close to 
his chief as he dared without drawing attention to himself, ordered, “Be still.”
      Aragorn spoke, his voice clear. “Saru, I beg your forgiveness for all the pain I 
have caused you. For every blow that should not have fallen, for every false accusation, 
for every injustice, I apologize. My line will ever be a friend to your line, if you will 
allow it. And I will be a friend to you, if you will let me.”
      Silver tears were trickling down Saru’s cheeks. “Do not speak so, Dunadan,” he 
whispered hoarsely, speaking the words he knew Aragorn needed to hear. “I love you as 
my brother.” Saru knelt and touched Aragorn’s arm to raise him up.
      And with Mordecai’s help, Aragorn was standing once again. He had also wept, 
but now he smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Dunadan. I also love you as my brother.”
      Saru stepped back on shaking legs, and Kehydi wrapped him in a tight embrace 
from behind. Saru let his head fall back onto his lover’s shoulder. He was still weeping, 
and Kehydi reached up to gently wipe away his tears.
      Aragorn’s face was grey even as he smiled at the two men, but then it turned 
white. His eyes lost their focus and he slumped against Mordecai, so suddenly giving the 
other man all of his weight that Mordecai nearly lost him. Malacai moved forward and 
helped his brother to raise Aragorn up again.
      Aragorn’s head was bowed, and all could hear his labored breathing. Still, he 
struggled to speak. “Hear… hear me, Dunedain.”
      “We hear,” they answered, though it was more of an automatic response this time 
than an honest one. All eyes were on him as he hung in the arms of his second and his 
assistant healer.
      “Legolas… will be escorted to Mirkwood… to King Thranduil… Beg him to treat 
Legolas as his son if I am not…” Aragorn lifted his eyes and met Legolas’ gaze. The elf 
stood, frozen with shock, a little to one side of Kehydi and Saru. “Forgive me, Legolas… 
You were always free… I was just too stupid…” His eyes rolled up to the whites and he 
collapsed, his head lolling to one side.
      Everyone started shouting and moving at once.
***
      “Why did you let him out there?” Malacai snapped at his brother as the two of 
them loosened Aragorn’s shirt and trousers so that the man could breathe more easily. 
Each of them stood on one side of a pallet in Mordecai’s healer-tent.
      “He said he was desperate. He said the Dunedain had to know…” Mordecai was 
rubbing Aragorn’s wrists, keeping the older man’s blood flowing. “Fetch the herbs in the 
sixth brown jar from the right.”
      Malacai didn’t argue as he obeyed, but his mind was reeling. They must not lose 
Aragorn… They must not. He had already come too close to death twice. ‘Don’t things 
like this usually run in threes?’ he wondered as he gathered the herbs up and returned to 
his brother for further instruction.
      “Boil the water. Steep the herbs. Then drain off the water until the herbs are a 
paste,” Mordecai ordered as he continued to work over Aragorn’s motionless form. 
      As he drained the water what seemed like an eternity later, Malacai spoke again. 
His thoughts had settled slightly, though he still felt the urge to give in to wild, 
directionless panic. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You were only doing what he 
ordered, and he needed to say what he did.” He didn’t add that Aragorn had needed to 
make the speech. If these were to be his last hours, let him at least die with truth and 
justice on his lips.
      Mordecai sighed. “Help me strip him.”
      Malacai complied, and when Aragorn lay naked before them they saw the angry 
red lines that were creeping up his arms, slipping down his legs and, when the man lay on 
his stomach, making their way up his back from his entrance.
      Malacai moaned and put his head in his hands. “We can’t stop all that poison!” he 
cried helplessly. “Legolas was already healing him. If he couldn’t help, who can? There’s 
no way we would get him to Rivendell in time, even assuming that it would be safe to 
travel right now, which it isn’t, with the Nine probably skulking somewhere very close 
by.” He felt tears pressing against his eyes and pushed his palms hard against his face to 
stop them. The panic he had been fighting rose, suffocating and strong, in his throat.
      Mordecai announced, “We’ll do two things, Malacai. First, we’ll cut him and 
pack the wounds with athelas. Second, we’ll make him an infusion of rown-wood and 
seagrass.”
      “But…” Malacai stared at his brother. He struggled to understand. Rown-wood 
could be found easily enough, but there was no seagrass unless they actually went to the 
sea. “The Grey Havens are two days’ journey from here!”
      “Then we’ll send our fastest riders,” Mordecai answered staunchly, refusing to 
give up. He drew his knife. “Go get the athelas. It’s in the blue jar. Then fetch all that lies 
within Aragorn’s tent. Then, if it isn’t enough, send Annaleh and Sarahe to gather more.”
      Malacai, given something to do, set about it, his doubts cast aside as his hands 
found work.
***
      “Will you go?” Mordecai asked Legolas. He wasn’t looking at the elf. His fingers 
worked to rub the crushed, soaked athelas into the fresh cuts that covered Aragorn’s back. 
He had already packed the cuts to the man’s midsection with the anti-toxin and bandaged 
the result.
      Legolas longed to shout, “Yes! Yes!” His mind reeled as he stared down at 
Aragorn, who seemed so utterly helpless. But he didn’t want to show how much 
Aragorn’s immobility frightened him.
      ‘You don’t know he will really let you go…’ his bitter side tried to argue.
      Legolas snapped at it, ‘I know because he announced it in front of the Dunedain. 
And because he prostrated himself in front of Saru. And because there are no more slaves 
in the camp. I know it. And I need to help him. No matter what he did to me before, he 
once cared for me. And he may care for me again.’
      “Yes, I will go.”
      “I would normally encourage you to take a guard, but I doubt anyone can match 
your speed.” Mordecai was bandaging the first cut.
      “I’ll be fine. How much do you need?”
      “Ride there with empty saddlebags. Return with them full.”
      Legolas nodded, and turned to leave.
      “Wait,” Mordecai called.
      Legolas glanced back.
      ‘He’s giving you orders,’ snarled his malicious side.
      “Please be careful, Legolas. I don’t want to be the one to tell Aragorn… or Saru… 
that you were injured.”
      Legolas nodded and left, smirking at the malicious voice in his head. ‘You can be 
wrong sometimes, too, you know.’
***
       Alone again, the brothers continued to work over their chief and friend. 
Aragorn’s breathing had grown ragged.
      Mordecai murmured suddenly, startling his brother, “He said he had to help while 
there was still time.”
      Malacai didn’t look at him, didn’t respond, but Mordecai saw the tension creep 
into his shoulders.
      Mordecai went on, “He told me that he couldn’t wait until his full recovery. He 
asked me to help him outside. He said he wouldn’t have to call a council; it would come 
to him.” Mordecai sighed. “He was right. With his mind free, our Strider was always 
right.” His voice was husky, but he swallowed several times and a little of the emotion in 
his voice disappeared. “Even when he first came here, when he was so new to everything, 
he knew certain things.”
      Malacai grunted. “Aye.” He didn’t trust himself to say anything else.
      Mordecai took Aragorn’s hand and prayed silently, ‘Please come back to us. We 
need you.’
***
      Halbarad had ridden steadily for two days. His horse was exhausted, and he knew 
he must soon stop. ‘Maybe we’ll stop once we’re out of this little wood,’ he decided.
      But he longed to reach home and redeem himself. ‘Aragorn has given me a 
second chance,’ he kept thinking. ‘I want to show him that the chance wasn’t wasted.’
      ‘And what of Saru? Won’t you miss your pretty, weak whore?’
      Halbarad ignored the voice. It spoke only nonsense. He touched the Lady 
Galadriel’s gift where it hung around his neck. She had granted to him a mithril star 
surrounded by mellorn leaves shaped from purest gold.
      ‘Keep it close to your heart, Halbarad, son of Halbareth. It will comfort you and 
help to repress the Dark Lord’s whispers. But always remember that you must be ready to 
fight him by yourself at any time, with or without this pendant.’ 
      ‘I will, my Lady.’
      In the saddle, Halbarad took his hand away from the pendant and challenged the 
voices. ‘Leave me. I have no need of you.’
      As if in answer, he heard a piercing, freezing cry. His heart, too, froze, and his 
mount skidded to a stop, tossing his head and snorting a little in fear.
      ‘What manner of beast makes that sort of noise?’
      The cry came again, but this time Halbarad also heard the screeching, grinding 
crash of metal striking metal.
      ‘Someone is fighting that dark thing, whatever it is,’ the Ranger thought, and his 
courage rose. ‘I can fight it, too. I must fight, for I might be needed.’ He urged his 
stallion forward.
      When he reached the site of the battle, he leapt off his stallion’s back and drew his 
sword. But before he could lunge forward, he heard the sound of his chief’s voice in his 
mind.
      ‘How can I hear him? That’s impossible!’ But he’d heard stories of this sort of 
thing, even if he had never believed them.
      ‘And there isn’t time to wonder!’ shouted Aragorn in his mind. ‘Build a fire! Only 
flame can drive them away! Hurry!’
      Halbarad set to work, keeping a wary eye on the battle that raged less than a 
dozen feet away. Why the creatures didn’t notice him, he couldn’t tell, but he didn’t care. 
All he longed to do was prove that he was worthy of being called Dunadan again.
***
      Glorfindel lashed out with his light again, but he had been hurt, and the little 
flame he was able to bring forth flickered and waned. He fought on still, cursing himself. 
‘Idiot. Moron! How could you leave the safety of Imladris? You knew… you knew the 
Nazgul were out here. Elrohir or no Elrohir, couldn’t you have simply hidden and waited, 
even if you were too much of a coward to confront him?’
      He parried a stroke from the nearest Nazgul, but there were simply too many of 
them. ‘With my light, I could defeat them. Without it… well, it’s only a matter of time.’ 
Despite his grim thoughts, Glorfindel fought on, determined to cause as much damage as 
he could.
      When the yell came from his right, he was so startled that he almost ended up 
with one less arm. But luckily, the Nazgul that stood before him was distracted, as were 
all the others. They glanced that way, then only three turned back to face him. The others 
moved towards the source of the shout. 
***
      Halbarad leapt forward, brandishing his torches. His lip was pulled up in a feral 
snarl and his eyes danced with the pure light of righteous hatred. “Face me!” he roared at 
the wraiths, who still stood as if frozen, their dark forms no more intimidating to 
Halbarad than shadows cast by a cheerful campfire. He advanced, the torches weaving 
back and forth in front of him.
      For all his bravery, he was no fool. As a boy, Halbarad had trained hard and 
struggled to do everything he was told. Now that the Shadow had left him, he was free to 
recall those lessons and use them. He knew how to move in a fight where he was 
outnumbered, and knew how to press the advantage of surprise. He didn’t wait for the 
wraiths to collect their wits, but bore down on them. He even set the nearest one alight 
before the others reacted.
      As the one wraith retreated, shrieking, the others surged forward. Halbarad met 
them with torch and with voice. “Come on!” he taunted. “Fight me! Can’t you do better 
than that, you formless, stupid shadows? Can’t you?”
      The other one, the one who had been fighting all nine wraiths by himself, shouted 
a warning in Elvish. “Don’t tease them! They’ve already suffered at least one defeat 
today, possibly two.”
      Halbarad grunted at that and stilled his restless, poisonous tongue. But he longed 
to tell these servants of the Enemy what he thought of them.
      His attackers rushed forward suddenly and Halbarad stopped worrying about 
taunting Sauron’s minions. He was so sorely pressed that he thought he might die under 
the wraiths’ savagely poisonous swords. Longing to see his chief again and show him 
that he had changed, Halbarad shouted to the elf (for surely, he reasoned, it must be an elf 
because his voice, even while fighting, was passing fair), in Elvish to hide his words from 
the wraiths, “Do you know Strider of the Rangers?”
      “Aye.”
      “Tell him I fought here if you live and I fall. Please tell him I fought bravely. 
Please tell him-”
      A Morgul-blade, slicing up from below, put an end to his plea as it slipped, easy 
as a hot knife through butter, through Halbarad’s tunic and under-tunic and into his 
stomach.
      The Dunadan staggered, thrusting both of his torches at the wraith that had 
stabbed him. He fell forward onto his knees. He gasped out, “Tell him I’m free,” then 
tipped forward. Darkness took him.
***
      When the wraith burst from the underbrush, alight and screaming, Elladan did 
what came naturally to him: he seized an arrow from the quiver on his back and held it 
out towards the wraith. As the blazing shadow swept past, not really even seeing the 
elven riders, Elladan thrust the arrow forward so that it caught fire. He drew the arrow 
closer to him and shielded it from the wind his speed created.
      Elrohir gaped at his brother, but wasn’t so far gone in sorrow or confusion that he 
couldn’t follow his brother’s actions. He, too, soon sheltered a burning arrow.
      Side by side, the twins burst into the middle of the fray. They were just in time to 
see Halbarad fall.
      Elladan’s eyes went at once to Glorfindel, but for the moment he looked away as 
he lit another arrow with the first, then shot the first arrow into the nearest of the 
remaining eight assailants. That one went screaming off, heading south this time instead 
of north, and Elladan turned his attention to the others. Beside him, Elrohir imitated his 
twin’s actions.
      One by one, the wraiths were stopped by the fire that the sons of Elrond wielded. 
The Witch King tried to use Glorfindel as a shield, but the Balrog Slayer dropped to a 
crouch, then spun away to avoid his grasping, nearly formless arms. As soon as 
Glorfindel was out of the way, both twins hit the Witch King with blazing arrows. He 
fled, howling his frustration to an unsympathetic sky.
      There were only two wraiths left as Elladan and Elrohir drove the King off, but 
the elves didn’t have any more flaming arrows. They backed up a little, trying to stay 
between the Nazgul and Glorfindel and the man who had fought beside him. The wraiths 
drew closer.
      “Come play again,” the nearer one murmured, his tone silky and cold. “Come, 
Elladan; be with us again. We promise you riches and honour-”
      “And love,” the other added, “and freedom and peace and-”
      Above the skulking, deadly shadows, the eagle, which had been circling all this 
while, waiting for his chance, dropped like a stone and began to rip at one of the wraiths 
with talons and beak.
      Realising that they could not win, the remaining wraiths retreated, cursing the 
bird, cursing the elves and cursing the world for making them suffer so many defeats in 
so short a time.
      ‘Once we were great,’ thought the one that had been assaulted by the eagle. 
‘Once, no one could defeat us. What has happened to our power?’
      And Sauron in his mind answered, ‘Come home, and I will make all well.’
      All of the Nine heard him, and all retreated south, longing for the safety and 
surety of Mordor.
Chapter Forty-Nine
      Elladan didn't hesitate. As soon as he knew that the wraiths weren't coming back 
(he noted, gratefully, that the eagle had perched itself on a high branch to act as a sentry) 
he dismounted in one swift, graceful motion and ran to Glorfindel.
      His lover's head was bowed with exhaustion and he didn't even seem to care that 
he was bleeding (a sluggish flow, since his elven healing powers were already taking 
effect) from a shallow, yet disconcertingly long cut on his arm. His golden hair hung in 
his eyes and his hands, dangling at his sides, were shaking slightly.
      A few paces from his love, Elladan stopped and stood still, feeling the forbidding 
aura that radiated from the exhausted Elda. His hands worked at his sides, longing to 
draw Glorfindel against his chest, to feel that he was, indeed, alive and (mostly) whole, 
that the image his eyes saw wasn't just the trick of a desperate mind. Elladan suddenly 
realised how frightened he'd been that he would never see Glorfindel again. He hadn't let 
the fear in before, when it could have done real damage, maybe even made Elladan's fear 
a self-fulfilling prophecy, but now he felt the tears pressing at his eyes. He reached out 
blindly, but he was still too far away to touch Glorfindel.
      Then the Elda raised his head, and Elladan saw the naked expression on his face. 
Glorfindel was weeping silently, and the relief and need for comfort were both apparent 
on his beautiful, fragile face.
      Elladan closed the distance between them at once and drew Glorfindel against 
him, bringing his hand up to stroke Glorfindel's hair. He realised that he, too, was 
shedding silent tears, and he didn't care. Glorfindel was clinging to him and he longed to 
draw his lover so close that they could never be separated again. He began kissing the 
blond hair before him, light, feathery kisses that nevertheless conveyed his wordless joy.
      Glorfindel sobbed softly and burrowed his head into Elladan's shoulder, clinging 
so desperately that Elladan felt his heart break a little.
      "I'm here, Glorfindel," he whispered, squeezing his lover tighter for a moment, 
then drawing back a little so he could look into Glorfindel's face.
      The Elda dipped his head, hiding his face, even as a mewl of disappointment 
escaped his lips.
      "Please, Glorfindel, look at me," Elladan whispered. "I want you to see 
something." And when Glorfindel raised his head, ever so slowly, and was looking at the 
dark-haired elf before him, Elladan smiled. "Can you see how much I love you, beautiful 
Glorfindel?" he asked softly.
      Glorfindel swallowed and bit his lip.
      Elladan waited patiently, his hands resting lightly on his lover's shoulders.
      At last, Glorfindel nodded, and his eyes were rapidly filling with tears. "Yes, 
Elladan," he managed, his voice breaking, "I see it, but…" Another sob rose, catching in 
his throat as he struggled to swallow it down so he could speak clearly. "But…" He made 
as if to pull away from Elladan, to retreat, even though they both knew that wasn't the 
way to fix things. But old habits die hard.
      "Please tell me, Glorfindel."
      The Elda bit his lip again, and his eyes flicked over Elladan's shoulder.
      "Nay, Glorfindel, look only at me," Elladan urged, touching Glorfindel's cheek 
lightly. "I need to know."
      "We can't be together," Glorfindel moaned almost inaudibly.
      Elladan's first impulse was to scream, 'What? Why not?" Instead, he waited, 
hoping Glorfindel would think about what he was saying and reconsider.
      "Everything will stop us," Glorfindel continued, his voice cracking. But now he 
was staring at Elladan, as if trying to fill his memory with his lover's face. "Imladris will 
stop us. Elrond will stop us. Elrohir will stop us. The Shadow will stop us. Arda will stop 
us." He was blinking furiously, and now he reached up and caught Elladan's hand, where 
it was still resting on his cheek, in both of his.
      "Elladan," he rasped, "I love you. But we can't be together. Please let me go, I'll 
find a quiet, safe place to die. It won't take long. My light is almost gone, and I scarcely 
have any strength left. Please let me go back to the Halls of Mandos." He raised Elladan's 
hand, safely clasped in both of his, to his lips and kissed the tips of Elladan's fingers 
tenderly. "I'll be all right. It won't hurt to die this time. And at least this time I will have 
the memory of love to comfort and warm me."
      "But it doesn’t have to be a memory, Glorfindel. Don't you understand that?"
      Elladan's head whipped around and he stared at Elrohir, who was standing by 
their horses, his face unreadable.
      The second son of Elrond crossed to Glorfindel and took his hands. Elladan let his 
hands drop, unsure what to do. Hadn't he commanded Elrohir to stay out of the way? But, 
somehow, this felt right. He waited, watching, ready to step in if he needed to.
      "I'm going to stay out of your way, Glorfindel," Elrohir continued, meeting the 
Elda's gaze. "I'm going to make Ada stay out of your way. I'm not going to let anyone 
pull the two of you apart."
      The look of disdainful disbelief that crossed Glorfindel's face shocked both twins. 
The Elda schooled his features quickly, but it was too late; the damage had been done. 
Once again, Glorfindel attempted to pull away as he saw the mistake of his own 
weakness in Elrohir's eyes.
      Elrohir urged, "Look at me, Glorfindel. You need to understand this."
      Glorfindel began to cry again, but he met Elrohir's gaze.
      Elladan moved closer and put his arm around Glorfindel's shoulders, glaring a 
warning at his brother.
      "I love Elladan," Elrohir resumed. "I love him more than anything. I would rather 
kill everyone in Middle-Earth than watch him suffer. I'd rather die myself than see him 
hurt." He squeezed Glorfindel's hands, though not harshly. "I will stand between every 
evil in this world and my brother, if that's what I must do." He took a deep breath. "I will 
even guard him from my own selfish needs. Glorfindel, I won't pretend to like you, or 
care about you. But if you die, Elladan will die. If you're hurt, he's hurt. So please, for 
Elladan, stay here and love him. I promise I'll do everything I can to protect the two of 
you, and I'll stay out of your way as much as possible. I only ask two things: stay at 
Elladan's side, and sometimes let me spend time with my twin. That's all I want."
      His eyes flashed, and Glorfindel knew this wasn't the whole truth. But it was 
almost the truth, and at least part of what Elrohir had said was all true: he loved Elladan, 
and he would do anything to protect him.
      The Elda nodded. "I will stay with Elladan. I will love him until the end of the 
world, and beyond that, if I'm allowed."
      Elrohir bore down on his hands. "And?"
      Elladan opened his mouth to order Elrohir to stop, but Glorfindel spoke first.
      Glorfindel answered with difficulty, because he thought he might understand what 
the rest of that one truth might entail, "As long as you promise not to hurt him, as long as 
you promise to protect him from yourself, I will let you spend time with him." He met 
Elrohir's eyes and didn't back down. This was too important to use subtle hints. He 
needed to make sure Elrohir understood him.
      Elrohir's eyes narrowed, but then he nodded, seemingly irritated.
      'Of course he's irritated… furious, really,' Glorfindel thought. 'He doesn’t 
understand what is in his mind and heart, not yet, at least, but he realises that it could be 
dangerous. Still, he wants to retain control, and even giving me this promise, whether he 
can keep it or not, is a blow to his pride.'
      Elrohir sighed. "I don't understand you, Glorfindel, but I'll give you the promise 
you ask. Elladan will never be hurt by me, and I will shelter him with my very soul from 
everyone else that would wish him harm. Are you satisfied?"
      "Yes," Glorfindel answered simply, unabashed. "I will allow you to spend time 
with him, and I won't begrudge you because he loves you, Elrohir. He loves his twin, and 
I don't want to hurt him in any way."
      Elrohir stepped back, nodding and frowning. He released Glorfindel and turned 
towards his horse. “Then we should-” He stopped, glancing around. Elladan wasn’t at 
Glorfindel’s side anymore. After a moment (Elrohir admitted that his heart skipped a beat 
before commencing a feverish jig) the younger twin spotted his brother kneeling beside 
the prone form of the man who had fought at Glorfindel’s side.
      Elladan spoke without looking at the other two. “He’s slipped into a deep sleep, 
maybe closer to a death-trance than anything else.” His eyes were closed and he imparted 
healing energy into the man. “We really need to get him home. If Ada can, he needs to 
help him.”
      Glorfindel was seized by a vindictive impulse to tell Elladan that Elrond was 
more likely to hasten the man’s death than to heal him, but he cast that aside. He and 
Elrohir strode to Elladan’s side and together they lifted the man onto Elladan’s horse, 
steadying him until Elladan had climbed into the saddle behind him. Elladan wrapped his 
arms around Halbarad and Elrohir handed him his reins.
      “Let’s go,” Elladan said then, and he started to move at a trot. As the other two 
elves went to their horses, Elladan called to the eagle, “Thank you, my friend. If you are 
ever in need, Imladris is open to you, and you may rest, if you wish, in my rooms.”
      The eagle rose into the air, circled once, and departed, heading towards the 
horizon where the sun had so recently disappeared.
***
      “Speak!” demanded the sentry, drawing his bow back and peering at the figure 
before him on the tall, shaggy horse. ‘A Dunadan horse,’ he thought, but he didn’t relax 
the taut string. The horse might have been stolen, after all. It never paid to be too trusting. 
‘In years past, when an alliance existed between men, elves and dwarves, trust was 
commonplace. Now it is a thing to be always earned.’
      The figure atop the horse brushed his hood back with both hands, slowly so as not 
to seem threatening. The hood dropped onto his shoulders and Legolas lowered his hands 
even more slowly than he had raised them. He knew the elf before him surely had 
amazing reflexes. “I am Legolas. Malacai Dunadan has sent me on a mission.”
      “Are you his slave then?” asked Gildor with obvious distaste. He lowered the bow 
slowly, though he still held it with both hands, ready to raise it in an instant if that was 
called for.
      “No.” Legolas shook his head emphatically. “I once belonged to A- to Strider, 
chief the of the Dunedain, but he has set me free. May I dismount?”
      “Yes.” Gildor studied the elf. He could see that this one was quite young- not yet 
past the time when he would stop aging physically, though he might be close to that time. 
“When did he set you free?”
      “Yesterday,” Legolas answered, touching Kendall’s neck gently to make sure his 
stallion would stand still. He didn’t want to give the elf before him any cause to shoot. 
‘Though, in truth, I weary of all his formality. I want to get back to Aragorn.’ He 
defiantly ignored the little malicious voice that clamored to challenge him.
      “And you still serve him?” Gildor asked. “Or do you seek something more here? 
Do you seek shelter?”
      Legolas lost his patience. “I told you that I have come on a mission from Malacai 
Dunadan. Strider is dying, and he must be saved. The Dunedain need him.”
      Gildor put his bow away at last. “What do you need to save young Estel?”
      Legolas stared at him for a moment, then caught Kendall’s bridle and strode 
forward. “He needs sea grass. The Witch King of Angmar raped him.”
      Gildor turned away, gesturing for Legolas to follow him. ‘Estel has learned, then,’ 
he marveled. ‘And here I was thinking that the Shadow had a foothold everywhere.’ He 
even dared to hope that the Dark Lord’s influence was fading in Imladris. ‘And if that 
happens, there is nothing that will stop us from conquering the Shadow.’
      In truth, Gildor didn’t know if he would be remaining long enough in Middle 
Earth to fight the Shadow directly, but he thought it at least possible.
***
      Kehydi laid his ear against Saru’s belly and closed his eyes. Saru’s fingers 
wandered through his lover’s dark hair and Kehydi smiled. He sat up. “I don’t hear him.”
      “It still may be too early,” Saru answered, his hands trailing down Kehydi’s arms, 
coming to rest at his waist.
      “But we made love almost six months ago,” Kehydi pointed out. He blushed a 
little. “Well, at least it’s been that long since I was… you know… inside.”
      Saru smiled sadly at the memory. “Aye, I know it. But Kehydi, remember that this 
might be Halbarad’s child as well as mine.”
      Kehydi waved that away. “The baby’s ours, Saru- yours and mine. I feel it.” He 
touched Saru’s swollen belly lightly and closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of his 
lover beneath his fingers.
      Saru tightened his hold on Kehydi’s waist and the older man looked at him in 
concern.
      “Saru? Are you in pain?”
      “Nay,” Saru answered, meeting Kehydi’s gaze and holding it. “But I need to ask 
you something, Kehydi, and I beg you to answer truthfully, even if you don’t think it’s 
what I want to hear.”
      Kehydi opened his mouth to argue that he was always honest, then shut it again. 
“I promise,” he said at last.
      Saru didn’t hesitate. “Will you love this babe even if it isn’t yours? Even if it 
looks like Halbarad?”
      Kehydi’s jaw dropped, and hurt flashed in his eyes. “Saru,” he nearly moaned, 
“how can you ask me such a thing? Of course I will love the baby, even if it isn’t mine!” 
He grasped Saru’s hands and searched his lover’s gaze. “Saru, I love you. The baby is 
yours. How can I not love it?”
      Tears filled Saru’s eyes. ‘I seem to be crying a lot lately. Maybe it’s the 
pregnancy.’ He almost laughed at himself. ‘Nay. I’ve always been this sensitive.’
      To Kehydi, he said sincerely, “Thank you, love. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just 
had to hear you say it.”
      Kehydi drew Saru against his chest, cradling him. “I love you, Saru,” he 
whispered fiercely. “I will always love you.” He rubbed small circles over Saru’s back 
and his lover settled against him with a soft sigh of contentment.
      Kehydi closed his eyes, but an image of Aragorn swam into his mind and he 
opened his eyes again quickly. ‘He was so weak… Uncle Mordecai had to hold him, and 
then my father had to help him, too.’ Kehydi could hardly grasp the idea of Aragorn 
being anything less than strong. ‘Even when he was hurting Saru and Legolas… and me,’ 
he acknowledged after a moment ‘he was strong.’ For the first time, Kehydi truly 
entertained the thought that Aragorn might die. A shiver ran though him.
      Saru moved in his arms so he could study Kehydi’s face. “What is it?”
      Kehydi hated hearing the apprehension in Saru’s voice, and hated himself more 
for putting it there. But his days of lying to his partner were over. “I’m afraid Aragorn 
might die.” He looked down into Saru’s eyes and waited for the fear to well in their 
depths. It didn’t.
      Saru smiled reassuringly instead. “Kehydi, he will live. I know he will.” He 
reached up and touched Kehydi’s stubbled cheek. “I don’t know how I know, but I do.”
      Kehydi tried to simply believe, but he was too pragmatic. “I wish I had your faith, 
my Saru,” he whispered morosely, stroking Saru’s hair.
      “It’s not faith,” Saru answered. “It’s certainty. I had a vision.” He sat up so he 
could face Kehydi squarely.  “This was while I recovered from the wound the orc gave 
me. In my sleep, I awoke and before me-”
      Kehydi held up a hand. “Saru, forgive me, but how can you have visions? Among 
men, only the Dunedain have visions because of their Numenorean blood and the drop of 
elf blood that’s in each of us.”
      Saru shook his head, bemused. “I don’t know, Kehydi. How can I be pregnant? I 
don’t have the ability to do that, either, but-” He touched his belly lightly and gazed into 
his lover’s eyes.
      Kehydi was forced to concede that point. “What did you see?” He took Saru’s 
hands, as if to give him strength. ‘Or maybe it’s only to steady my own nerves,’ Kehydi 
thought. He personally had never trusted all of what it meant to be a Dunadan, especially 
the spiritual/psychic side that insisted the Rangers could have visions, talk to ghosts and 
generally, at least in Kehydi’s view, make simple black-and-white situations much more 
complicated.
      Saru began again. “I was standing in the camp, but it wasn’t the camp, for we 
were on short, brown grass instead of the green we find here in all times but winter. This 
was grass that somehow reflected the poison of the war.”
      Kehydi opened his mouth to ask, ‘What war?’ but Saru was speaking again and 
Kehydi decided to wait until Saru was finished.
      “It also wasn’t the camp because we weren’t surrounded by trees. Instead, a city 
rose to the south and shimmered in the first rays of the rising sun. As I watched the dawn 
turn the walls to a warm rose, the gates of the city opened, and three figures passed out 
into the field. All were dressed in grey cloaks, though I think perhaps two were not 
Dunedain cloaks, but an imitation.” He frowned. “Or an improvement. I think maybe 
those cloaks were made first, and better, and our cloaks are an imitation of theirs.”
      He paused, collecting his thoughts. “The two in the not-quite-Dunedain cloaks 
turned aside, going to the right. The central figure continued to approach, and I could see 
that it was Aragorn. His head was bowed, and his shoulders slumped, and his feet 
dragging. But he was alive, Kehydi, alive.”
      Saru smiled radiantly for a moment, then the expression slipped away as he 
continued. “He stopped before me and looked up. His face was grey with fatigue and 
grief, but he smiled. ‘The Shadow has passed from the White City,’ he told me in a dry, 
exhausted voice.  
      “‘You need to sleep,” I told him, and reached out to take his arm.
      “He nodded. “Aye, I must… but first…” He looked at me again. “I’m sorry, 
Saru,” he whispered, “I shouldn’t ask you.”
      “‘I will do whatever you need, my king,” I answered sincerely.
      “Aragorn assessed me for a moment, then nodded. ‘If you have the strength, ask 
Kehydi to call a council. Tell him to ready the Dunedain for a march. Our fighting’s not 
done.’
      “‘Where will we go, my lord?’ I asked, starting to guide him towards his tent that 
he set up in the middle of the camp, like we do here.
      ‘“I don’t know. It may be that we will wait for the Shadow here… but I doubt 
that. I feel as if we must ride to certain defeat in order to save Middle-Earth.’ He offered 
me a gallows smile. ‘Go now, Dunadan; my hopes go with you.’
      “‘If anyone wishes to see you…’ I began as he started to disappear into the tent.
      “‘If I’m truly needed, don’t hesitate to wake me,’ Aragorn answered over his 
shoulder. Then he was gone.”
      Saru looked at Kehydi and asked, “Do you see? Aragorn is alive sometime in the 
future, because we were- I think, anyway- before a foreign city in a far land.”
      Kehydi asked, almost of himself, “But if that’s true, why would he want me to 
call the council instead of my father?” He looked up at Saru, and his eyes were haunted. 
“Do you think my father… that he…”
      Saru blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even thought about that. He groaned. “All I’ve 
done is upset you,” he mourned. “I’m sorry, Kehydi. But it doesn’t mean your father was 
dead. Maybe he was injured.”
      “Injured or not, he would have been at Aragorn’s side,” Kehydi maintained, and 
now there was a hint of tears in his eyes. Frustrated, he dashed them away with his 
sleeve. He took Saru’s hands again and met his gaze. “I won’t worry about it,” he said, 
trying to smile. “I know you were only trying to comfort me.” He leaned forward and 
kissed Saru. “I love you, my Saru. And I am grateful for the vision.”
      Saru moved back into Kehydi’s arms. “I’m sorry it wasn’t as happy as I wanted it 
to be.”
      Kehydi shook his head. “That sorrow is what makes me think it was a true vision. 
All stories are sad these days.” He kissed Saru gently then, but when Saru opened his 
mouth to Kehydi, the other man chuckled.
      “I need a deeper comfort,” Saru whispered, licking his lips and reaching down to 
trail his fingers over Kehydi’s hardening flesh.
      Kehydi nodded. “As do I, my Saru.” He drew Saru against him and let the 
momentum carry them until Saru lay on top of him.
Chapter Fifty
      Legolas slowed his stallion to a walk just beyond the borders of the camp. Gildor 
and the other two elves drew up alongside him.
      Roark, a former slave of Jamien and his wife, stared at them for a moment from 
where he stood at his post, keeping watch, but then he gestured and they passed him. 
Legolas nodded to him as he went, but Roark didn’t give an answering nod. The 
atmosphere in the camp had become very tense and he was afraid to do anything that 
would result in his punishment. Roark was a smart young man, and he knew better than 
to believe that slavery was over, even if Aragorn said it was so.
      When they were safely within the camp, Legolas dismounted and sprinted 
towards Mordecai’s tent, praying that he wasn’t too late. The two full saddle-bags 
bounced against his back. When he was very close, the tent flap opened and Malacai’s 
haggard face appeared. He saw Legolas, gave a cry of surprise mingled with joy, and 
drew back, holding the tent flap open.
      Neither Legolas nor Malacai felt the many unseen eyes that watched them. 
Neither of them felt the tension in the air.
      The four elves entered, and at once Gildor brushed past Legolas and knelt at 
Aragorn’s side. The Dunadan’s face was the color of curdled milk, except for two fiery, 
red splotches high on his cheeks. The heat and stench of death that baked off of him made 
the three elves from the Havens flinch. Never had any of them been so close to a mortal 
who was dying.
      Legolas, meanwhile, held out the sea grass to an exhausted Mordecai. The man at 
once took two large handfuls of the grass and dropped it into a pot of boiling water along 
with a generous measure of shaved rown-bark. He said over his shoulder, “Thank you, 
Legolas. He may yet live.”
      “Aye, there is always hope,” Malacai answered, regarding the new elves 
questioningly (and a little uneasily) as they clustered around Aragorn. The second in 
command darted a glance at Legolas, but the elf was watching Mordecai intently.
      Malacai approached the new elves. “Who are you?” he asked in Quenyan.
      Gildor answered, “You don’t know me, Dunadan? I was present in the escort that 
was meant to take young Estel to Imladris.”
      “I was only four at that time,” Malacai answered. “I ask again: who are you?”
      “Helpers,” answered one of the other elves.
      “So please be quiet and let us help,” added the third.
      Malacai’s eyes darkened and he took a step forward. “It is my duty to protect my 
chief, and if you-”
      “He is nearly dead,” Gildor cut in. “You have no choice but to trust us.” And, 
with that, the elves bent over Aragorn, concentrating their healing powers on his chest, 
protecting his heart and lungs. They knew that no cure could come from them; only the 
sea grass and rown mixture had any chance of success. But all three hoped to stave off 
death long enough for the mixture to be made.
      A tense hush fell over the tent then.
      Legolas roused himself and crossed to Malacai, knowing that he would be in the 
way if he tried to get to Aragorn.
      Unhesitatingly, Malacai put his arm around Legolas’ back and drew him close. 
“Aragorn will live,” he whispered fiercely.
      Legolas nodded, almost too anxious to wonder at Malacai’s sudden closeness. 
Yet, he seized on any question that distracted him from his fear. ‘He has always treated 
me with kindness, but this is much more. He is treating me as a trusted friend.’ Legolas 
frowned and thought about pulling away. But when he felt a shudder pass through the 
man, he put his own arm around Malacai and squeezed a little.
      Malacai sighed almost inaudibly. “Saru wishes to see you when you have time,” 
he murmured. “He has something to tell you, I think.”
      Legolas answered instantly, “He’ll have to come here. I’m not leaving Aragorn.”
      Malacai nodded slightly. “I don’t want to leave him either.”
      For the first time, Legolas took a good look at Malacai, noting the fatigue and 
dread that dimmed his gaze, and the lines of fear and helpless grief that creased his face. 
“How long has it been since you slept?” he asked pragmatically, seeing that the man was 
near collapse.
      “Not since before the battle with the Nazgul,” Malacai answered tonelessly, his 
mind too tired to realise where this question was leading.
      Legolas nodded. He’d expected that. Without further comment, he turned and 
guided Malacai towards the front of the tent.
      Malacai took three steps with him, his gaze turned inward, but then he stopped, 
seemed to shake himself, and looked around. He tried to pull away from Legolas, but the 
elf refused to release him. “Where are we going?” he asked.
      “You’re going to get some sleep.”
      Now Malacai did pull away, fire lighting his eyes. “No. I need to be here. Aragorn 
needs me.”
       Legolas asked practically, “Will you be able to help him if you’re falling 
asleep?”
      “Once he’s awake, I’ll-”
      “If Aragorn was awake, what would he order you to do?” Legolas demanded.
      Malacai shook his head. “Legolas, that isn’t the point. Aragorn-”
      “Needs you at your best,” Legolas answered. “Will you sleep now so that you can 
be fresh later?”
      Malacai darted a glance at the other three elves, who hid Aragorn from view, and 
then looked at his brother’s back as Mordecai worked over the pot. “Mordecai needs the 
sleep more than-”
      “I’ll take care of Mordecai in a moment,” Legolas answered. “I’m talking to you 
right now. Aragorn would tell you to sleep. So why don’t you do as he would command? 
Come back when you’re rested. Maybe he will even be awake when you return.” 
Legolas’ face was like carved stone. He glared at Malacai, challenging him to disagree.
      Malacai whispered something in the language of Rohan, perhaps because he 
didn’t want Legolas to understand, or perhaps because he didn’t want the other elves or 
Mordecai to understand. “He might be dead when I come back.”
      Legolas answered in the same tongue: “You will be called if he shows any signs 
of dying. I promise you will be here in his final moments, if he must have final moments. 
Please get some sleep. You’re not doing anything for Aragorn by standing here and 
killing yourself with all-consuming fear.” He touched Malacai’s arm, making the 
Dunadan look at him. “I can see it eating away at you, Malacai. Please don’t let the fear 
poison you. Aragorn is going to need you to be strong. The Dunedain are going to need 
you to be strong. Please go rest.”
      For a moment, Malacai looked as though he would challenge Legolas (and the elf 
had that moment to wonder about the stubbornness of men) then the Ranger sighed, his 
shoulders slumping. He switched back to the Common Speech. “I’m going. When 
Mordecai has done all he can, get him to sleep, too.”
      “I will.” Legolas watched Malacai leave, then he turned back to gaze at 
Mordecai’s bent back. ‘It’s going to be a long vigil,’ he thought, and he walked over to 
the side of the tent, sat down, drew his knees up to his chin and settled himself to wait as 
long as he had to.
***
      Just outside his tent, Malacai was confronted by four very grim-faced Dunedain: 
Jamien, his wife, Olorin and Smetana. “Can we speak with you?” Olorin began at once.
      Malacai gazed at them dazedly, his mind still back with Aragorn.
      The four Dunedain exchanged a look, nodding. ‘Just as we’ve guessed,’ Olorin 
thought. ‘Everything’s falling apart, and the higher ups are too stunned to do anything 
about it.’ He resisted the urge to snap his fingers in front of Malacai’s face.
      Gradually, Malacai became aware that he was being stared at. With a distinct 
effort, he pushed his worries about Aragorn (and, as an extension of those concerns, the 
future of the Dunedain) to one side. “What is it?” he asked Olorin in something close to 
his usually calm tone.
      “We need to speak with you,” Olorin repeated.
      Malacai nodded. “Come inside.” They parted for him and he led the way into the 
tent. Inside, Annaleh was sorting patches for a quilt, and Kehydi and Saru were mending 
their clothes. Malacai nodded to them, and moved to sit on his pallet, but the other four 
stopped short.
      “Malacai, we were hoping to make this a private council,” Olorin informed him, 
almost admonished him.
      Malacai, now seated on the low pallet, felt himself filled with sudden energy and 
clearness of thought. “Private councils only occur under two circumstances: when there 
has been an abuse of power, or when there is reason to believe that one of our number is 
falling into the Shadow. Do you wish to discuss either of these things?”
      The four bent their heads together and conferred briefly. Olorin sighed at last and 
met Malacai’s gaze. “I withdraw my request.”
      “Then sit down,” Malacai invited, waving his hand. He glanced at Kehydi, Saru 
and Annaleh. “If you wish to join this council, do so now or hold your peace.”
      The three rose silently and came to sit in front of Malacai and to his right, even as 
the others sat to his left. Olorin sat almost directly in front of him.
      “Should a slave be here?” Smetana asked, shooting Saru a quick, disapproving 
(and slightly hating) look.
      “I see no slave here,” Malacai answered bluntly. He folded his hands. “State your 
purpose.”
      Verea spoke up then, and her voice was deceitfully sweet and understanding. 
“Malacai, we only want to make sure that everyone is going to be taken care of.” She 
paused to let her words take effect. “Things are starting to fall apart here, and we want to 
provide for the younger Dunedain, especially those that are still quite young and can’t 
take care of themselves yet.”
      “How would you see to their protection?” Malacai asked neutrally.
      “We wish to preserve our traditions, which have served us in good stead for 
thousands of years. Would you agree that customs are important for the survival of a 
people?”
      “I will refrain from comment until you have finished your statement.”
      Kehydi and Saru exchanged a glance, and Saru’s hand crept into Kehydi’s.
      “There needs to be a certain level of orderliness and conduct among the 
Dunedain. Without it, we would fall apart. Without it, the Shadow would easily consume 
all that we hold dear, from the bravest warrior to the tiniest baby.”
      Saru’s free hand went to his stomach.
      “Please, Malacai,” she entreated, “all we want is a return to old traditions before 
the Dunedain are torn apart by change and unrest.” She fell silent, but beseeched him 
with her eyes.
      “Are you finished?” Malacai asked, his face expressionless.
      She nodded, demurely, it seemed.
      “I only ask because you haven’t said what exactly is bothering you. You have 
made many generalizations, but I would not presume to know exactly what you want.”
      “If I may?” Smetana asked, and Malacai nodded to him.
      “Aragorn has changed. Have you noticed it?”
      Malacai wasn’t surprised by the sudden topic change. ‘In fact,’ he thought, ‘it 
isn’t really a change of topic, just as off-shoot, like the branch of a tree.’
      “How has he changed?”
      “Have you noticed?” Smetana pressed.
      “Yes, I have noticed. But perhaps the changes I have noticed are not those you 
see. After all, each man sees his fellow men in different ways.”
      ‘Well, I sound like a pompous bastard,’ Malacai reflected wryly. ‘Hopefully they 
don’t hear it, even though I hear their high and mighty talk for what it is: dancing about 
the issue. At least my pompous tomfoolery comes straight to the point.’
      Smetana looked to the others for help.
      “He has broken a tradition that has stood for three thousand years,” Olorin began.
      “What tradition is that?”
      “Slavery.”
      Malacai shook his head. “Arador brought slavery to the Dunedain a little over 
three hundred years ago. That is hardly a millennium, let alone three.” 
      “Slavery existed in Gondor during the time of Elendil,” Jamien put in quietly.
      “Aye, it existed, but not with Elendil’s blessing. And neither of his sons, when the 
kingdom was divided, took slaves or promoted slavery among their people. Yes, it took 
place, but illegally. And not until the time of Arador was slavery accepted among 
Elendil’s descendents and the people they governed.”
      Malacai smiled inwardly, though his face remained dour and his gaze remained 
politely interested. ‘Do not seek to play the twisted history game with me, friends. I 
taught Aragorn all he knows of Dunedain history, and in the process I learned more than 
probably all of you know, for Aragorn needed a detailed history, complete with facts, 
dates and, most importantly, nuances of the time in question.’
      “Then he has broken a centuries-old tradition,” Olorin resumed, undaunted. 
“However long it has existed here, slavery is part of how we function. How can he just 
take it away and leave us to struggle through everything? How can he be called a 
responsible chief when he throws us into the unknown without a guide?”
      “There are numerous examples of societies which function without slaves,” 
Malacai responded. “If you study those, then you will learn how to live without slaves.” 
He knew the real questions were still ahead, and felt a great desire to hurry through this 
polite camouflage stage. He restrained himself, knowing they would get there in time, 
and he couldn’t hurry the proceedings. ‘And if nothing else, this is certainly ensuring that 
time is passing more quickly.’ He sent up a quick prayer for Aragorn’s recovery, then 
focused back on Olorin.
      “What will become of these slaves?”
      Malacai resisted the urge to ask Olorin if he was at the council Aragorn had held. 
“They will either become members of the Dunedain, or members of some other society. 
Whatever happens, they are free to make their own decisions about their lives now.”
      Smetana shifted restlessly. “Malacai, freeing the slaves is only a symptom of the 
evil that is spreading here. Aragorn is going to die, and we will be hard-pressed not to fall 
into the Shadow. Isn’t that true?”
      Malacai’s mouth was suddenly dry. He swallowed, but couldn’t speak. ‘Aragorn 
won’t die!’ his mind screamed, but his voice wouldn’t work.
      “Aragorn will survive,” Kehydi stated quietly. “He has been seen in a vision of 
the future.” Everyone was looking at him now, but Kehydi met only Smetana’s gaze. 
“Don’t doubt that Aragorn will live. Don’t doubt that he will bring us to glory. Aragorn-”
      “Is laying on his pallet, close to death,” Smetana answered tersely. “Don’t give us 
false hope.”
      Saru spoke then, his eyes intense even as his hand grasped Kehydi’s more firmly. 
“It isn’t false. Aragorn has only ever stood for hope.”
      The tent fell silent.
      “Well-spoken, Saru,” Annaleh said after a moment. She looked at those who sat 
on Malacai’s other side. “Understand this: without Aragorn, we are nothing. We are his 
guards, his people, his support. Without hope of someday helping him reach the throne of 
Gondor, we have no true and lasting purpose here. We can protect the folk around us for 
a time, but only with Aragorn’s crowning will we be able to take a decisive step towards 
peace for all of Middle-Earth.” She glared at each of them in turn, challenging them. “If 
you give up on Aragorn, you don’t deserve to be Dunedain. All he has ever fought for is 
the freedom of our people. Don’t let his hope be in vain.”
      A guilty look crossed Olorin’s face, but then he shook his head. “Annaleh, I do 
not mean to offend you, but neither you, nor the former slave beside you, nor the young 
man understand the true implications of your words. You are asking us to place all of our 
hope on one man’s pipe dream. How can you ask that of us? We are hard-working 
people, just like you. We care about Middle-Earth, just like you. We love our children 
and our families, just as you do. But we will not see our loved ones and our friends suffer 
and die for a foolish, impossible dream. Once, long ago, when Aragorn first came to us, I, 
like you, was hopeful of a future. He seemed strong and talented and ready to take on the 
world. But now he is withdrawn, confused and given to flights of fancy. What sort of 
king would he be? Assuming he ever got to the throne, which is now a doubt in many 
minds, you must understand, he would probably not be able to lead us.”
      Olorin smiled. “Now, I have no objections to Aragorn settling down here, finding 
a woman to marry, and having children. His son will be the next chief, and we will go on 
as we always have, with only this change: the title of Chief will be the child’s only title, 
not Ara- something, not Future King, not Heir of Isildur. Let the child face what must 
come. Let the child understand that, while we will never return to Gondor, we can be a 
people, by ourselves and for ourselves. Let him understand that, and I can see a bright 
future for the Dunedain.”
      He folded his hands in his lap and gazed at her, his eyes saying plainly that he had 
made his point as well as he could, and there was nothing more he could do but wait.
      Malacai roused himself with an effort (which he hid as well as he could) and 
spoke then. “You sound as if you’re suggesting mutiny.” His eyes were blazing- he had 
lost his ability to hide his strong emotions in the years since Aragorn had left for Rohan- 
and Olorin had to struggle not to look away. “Is that what you’re suggesting?” Malacai 
pressed, and now his gaze swept to the others that sat to his left.
      Jamien shook his head emphatically, his eyes wide with surprise. “No, Malacai, 
no. We didn’t mean that. Our only concern is that, well, with Aragorn’s changing 
condition… his changing beliefs…” He swallowed audibly. “What I mean is… You have 
to understand…”
      Smetana sighed in annoyance and shot Jamien a withering look. “Clearly put, 
Malacai, we care for the Dunedain and seek to protect them, with or without Aragorn. 
Because if he dies, we need to be ready to take things into our own hands. Providing for 
our wives and children is very important. Don’t you agree?”
      “I have never argued that point,” Malacai answered calmly. “However, I have a 
question for you: do you trust my leadership?”
      ‘Obviously you do not, but let’s find out how truthful you really are. If you aren’t, 
you will bear even greater watching.’
      Jamien opened his mouth, but Verea shook her head.
      Smetana smiled. “Malacai, you know that we trust you completely. But you must 
admit that you have not been yourself for years, maybe not since Aragorn was here 
before his long sojourn south. All we seek is to help you guard the Dunedain.”
      ‘Valar damn him, I didn’t know it was that obvious.’ Malacai gazed at Smetana 
expressionlessly while his mind whirled about, looking for a way out of this situation. 
‘He is, whether he knows it or not, talking about mutiny.’ He assessed Smetana’s posture 
and expression and decided, ‘He knows full well what he’s talking about.’ Malacai 
looked at Jamien, Verea and Olorin, and added, ‘And they know, though maybe they 
aren’t so ready to admit it.’
      Malacai longed, suddenly and almost desperately, for the days when he was only 
in line to be the second-in-command, the days when Aragorn had sought him out for 
education in lovemaking, and he had sought out Aragorn for education in hunting as only 
one raised among elves could teach it. ‘But now look at me. I can’t even protest that I’m 
too young to take this position, or too inexperienced. I don’t think anyone can be 
experienced enough for these last days. No man should have to talk his fellow soldiers 
out of mutiny…’
      ‘But if I don’t, who will?’
      “Smetana, how often have we fought together? How many attacks have we 
withstood?”
      Smetana answered, his face blank, “Many, Malacai. But that does not mean you 
have not changed and need-”
      “Can you count the number?” Malacai pursued.
      Smetana sighed, almost tiredly. “I don’t see the point of this, Malacai. We aren’t 
talking about the past; we’re talking about right now.”
      “Just answer me, then we’ll talk about the future of the Dunedain, and my future 
as second-in-command, to your heart’s content.”
      ‘There. I’ve called him out. I’ve shown him- and the others- that I know what’s 
on his mind, and that I don’t shy away from a confrontation. Aragorn,’ he thought for 
some reason, ‘lend me your negotiations-face. If I can’t have you here, I need that, at 
least.’
      “We have fought in perhaps a hundred skirmishes since I reached adulthood,” 
Smetana answered at last, and now, for the first time, he looked uncomfortable. “And I 
fought with you the seven times our- the camp- was directly attacked.” He sighed again 
and made a great show of smiling condescendingly. “You have your answer, Malacai; 
please give me mine.”
      “Fair enough. I only wanted you to realise how long you have fought for the 
Dunedain instead of against us, for Aragorn instead of against him.” Malacai smiled, and 
his expression was as false as Smetana’s but he let them all know it was fake by the way 
his eyes glittered. “I will never step down so that the Dark Lord can walk over my 
people. I will not step aside so an arrow can find Aragorn’s heart. Whatever you wish to 
do, understand two things: First, you will be forgiven if you truly repent afterwards. And 
second, I will fight you to my last breath, if that is what it takes to protect all that we have 
treasured since Elendil escaped Numenor to start a new kingdom in Middle-Earth.”
      Then Malacai stood, and his movement was so fluid, so sudden, and in such 
defiance of his advanced age, that a little gasp was drawn from Jamien (and perhaps 
Olorin as well).
      Malacai towered over them, and none dared move. “Our meeting has been 
concluded. I hope you received all the answers you desired. Even if you have not, the 
discussion is closed, at least for the day. I must sleep so that I may attend upon my lord 
Aragorn when he awakens.”
      As the four climbed to their feet, Malacai laid his hand on his sword-hilt. Those 
that had come to challenge him froze, their eyes darting to his weapon. 
      “Do not doubt my words,” Malacai commanded them, perhaps for the last time. “I 
will fight to the death to protect all that the Dunedain hold dear.”
      Smetana was the first to recover. He spun on his heel and retreated. The others 
followed like ducklings after their mother. None dared to look back. Jamien, who was 
last in line, had bowed his shoulders and he walked with a slightly shuffling gait, as if he 
wanted Malacai to call him back. Malacai didn’t, and at last the tent flap closed behind 
him.
      Malacai looked to his wife, son, and to his son’s lover. He spoke quietly, 
earnestly. “I thought the dark times had already come to our camp. I see now that they are 
just beginning.”
      He took two steps forward and put his hands on Saru’s shoulders.
      The young man tried to look away, but Malacai touched his chin gently and Saru 
raised his dark, deer’s eyes.
      “Please, my son, don’t go anywhere alone until this is all over. I don’t want to 
lose you.”
      Saru nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.
      Malacai released him and turned to Kehydi. “I need you to do three things. First, 
warn all of the former slaves to stay together. Then, ask Aaron to stand guard over them, 
along with two men he trusts implicitly. Make sure those men are armed, and make sure 
that the former slaves who can fight are armed as well. Last, when all that is done, go to 
Mordecai, if he is still with Aragorn, and tell him to get some sleep. You will stand guard 
over our chief until someone comes to relieve you. Don’t relinquish your post unless the 
person says ‘red stone’ to you three times. Do you understand?”
      Kehydi nodded. “Yes, Father.”
      Malacai touched his shoulder gently. “I love you, Kehydi. You have made me 
very proud. Now go.”
      And, when Kehydi was gone, because he was nearly dead on his feet, Malacai 
returned to his pallet. He almost fell onto it in his weariness.
       Saru caught him and lowered him to the pallet. His face set, his eyes fierce in his 
determination to keep control of himself, Saru removed Malacai’s boots and helped him 
to curl up. He covered his former master with a blanket, then stepped back.
      Malacai’s eyes were closed, but he managed, in a fuzzy, half-asleep voice, 
“Thank you, Saru…” He slept then.
      Annaleh put a cloak over Saru’s shoulders, even though it wasn’t really cold, then 
led him over to Kehydi’s pallet. “You won’t be able to sleep deeply. Something’s going 
to happen soon; I feel it. But rest, Saru. Your strength will be needed.”
      And, as she eased Saru onto the pallet, she handed him one of her knives. “I know 
you have weapons of your own, but keep this by you while you sleep.”
      Saru took it gratefully. “Please make sure Malacai has his knife.”
      “He always does.”
      Saru closed his eyes, and Annaleh went to her place near the front of the tent, both 
to listen and watch. She took out her bow (this was her weapon of choice, much like the 
sword was her husband’s) and took a single arrow from her quiver after settling the 
quiver itself comfortably on her back.
Chapter Fifty-One
      Despite all his worries, Saru did sleep. And he dreamed another vision.
      He was sitting in a warm, sunlit place that felt almost holy. Around him were 
others of the Dunedain, and Kehydi was there. He looked older- ‘but,’ Saru thought, ‘I 
feel older. Much older.’
      Soft singing floated to them on the wind, and when Saru glanced up, he saw elves 
in the trees above them. They were laughing, these elves, but there was also a shadow 
that passed over some of their faces, and Saru murmured to Kehydi, “They grieve, but are 
trying to hide it from us. They don’t want us to see how frightened they are.”
      “I’m afraid myself,” Kehydi answered. “We can’t leave soon enough.”
      “When will the council be over?” asked another voice, from Saru’s right, and the 
red-haired man glanced that way. He felt himself smile, even though he didn’t know why.
      “Soon,” he answered. “We are set to leave at sunset, after all.” He didn’t 
recognize the boy (the young man, really, for he had to be at least twenty-five) but the 
sight of him filled Saru with a strange mixture of pride, love and shame.
      “What are they talking about?” the young man pursued.
      “The road ahead, most likely. Maybe even if we are to go alone, or with others.” 
Saru found it easier to forget his confused feelings when he didn’t look directly at the 
young man. Instead, he gazed towards a gap in the trees and felt himself tense as 
footsteps were heard.
      The Dunedain stirred and rose almost silently. The elves above stopped singing.
      Three figures stepped into the break between the trees and approached. Two 
identical elves flanked a tall, straight figure.
      ‘Is that Malacai?’ Saru wondered, his eyes wide. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
      Before he could be sure, he was awakened by a piercing whistle of alarm.
      ‘We’re under attack,’ he thought as he leapt from his pallet, taking the knife, but 
also stopping to seize his weapons. As he stumbled from the tent, he noted that the sun 
had risen, if only just. He also acknowledged a sound he had been hearing all along: the 
cries of men, women and children, and the clashing of weapons.
      And as he made his way towards the sounds of battle, the piercing whistle went 
on and on.
***
      Legolas’ eyes dropped to the ring on his finger. He had forgotten it, scarcely 
looked at it since Ecthelion had pressed it into his hand back in Gondor. Now, with 
nothing else to occupy his mind but fear, Legolas studied it. The beauty of it was 
undimmed by the shadows in the tent, and Legolas took it off to study it better. ‘Aragorn 
should be wearing this,’ he thought. ‘It is his by right. I will give it to him when he wakes 
up.’
      Legolas turned the ring, admiring it from all sides, but not really seeing it for the 
marvel of artistry that it surely was. He saw, instead, the paleness of Aragorn’s face when 
he had arrived in the room he shared with Aragorn to find the man hovering near death. 
Then that image melted to the time he’d seen Aragorn dangling from the parting rope on 
the side of the East Tower. This, too, gave way, to an image of Aragorn, his hands 
bloody, his eyes red from lack of sleep, working to release Malacai from the bonds Jard 
and the others had imprisoned him in. Legolas let the memory take him for a brief time. It 
was certainly better to live in the past than in the present just then.
      Before he gave over to the memory entirely, Legolas mused detachedly, ‘I 
thought I had forgotten this. I thought…’
///Flashback///
      Aragorn struggled to free his second while tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision 
and making his task nearly impossible. But he wept nakedly, not hiding his grief before 
his slave and his second.
      Malacai did not weep. His eyes were distant and murky. His breath still hitched, 
and he sagged in his bonds.
      At last, Aragorn released the last restraint, and Malacai fell forward heavily into 
his chief’s arms. Aragorn supported him, turning him so he was leaning back. His head, 
too, was back, his mouth wide as he gasped for air.
      “We need to get up. We need to carry him out of here, Malacai,” Aragorn 
whispered. “Please, you have to help me.” He sobbed, then cleared his throat. “Please, 
Malacai; I can’t do it without you.”
      Malacai’s eyes were regaining their focus. “Ara… Aragorn…”
      Aragorn gripped his second’s hand, which had drifted up aimlessly. “I’m here, 
Malacai. We need to get up and…”
      “I’m dying, Aragorn,” Malacai said then. “Tell Mordecai to take my place, but 
that Kehydi should follow in my place when he is ready.”
      “You’re not dying,” Aragorn snapped, his grief coming out as anger. “You’re not 
dying, Malacai. You will live, and-”
      The door opened, creaking, and the three in the room; the suffering men and the 
forgotten slave (who was also grieving) froze. But it was Aaron, and with him Jamien.
      They didn’t stop, but pushed their way inside. Aaron’s face was ashen, but he 
struggled forward. He came at once to Aragorn and Malacai, and his hands were shaking. 
“What…. What…. What…” he kept saying.
      Legolas, fascinated and horrified, watched Jamien wrap Melchelai in his cloak.
///End Flashback///
      There was more- Legolas sensed it, even if he couldn’t really remember it- but the 
piercing whistle penetrated his dream, and he was up and moving before he even realised 
he’d heard the sound.
      But when he was at