Title: Rebirth
Author: Estel Baggins macfal1219@comcast.net
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Viggo/Orlando, Elrohir/Glorfindel
Rating: R
Summary: What if Aragorn didn’t commit suicide when he was starting to 
feel old? (After RotK) What if Legolas and Gimli didn’t go to the 
Undying Lands? Here is one way they could have passed, unnoticed, 
through the generations to our present-day world.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from the Lord of the Rings universe, and 
I’m taking huge liberties with J.R.R. Tolkien and the actors Viggo 
Mortenson and Orlando Bloom, and any other “real people” I include. 
Michael, Richard and Craig are my own creations, as are Kyra, Malacai, 
Kehydi, Aaron and Saru.
Warning: Eluded-to rape
Author’s Note: This is book-verse, since I know that better than the movie. 
The only thing I’m borrowing from the movie is the sense of humor of the 
characters, since that is shown seldom in the book.
Author’s Note #2: ** denotes Elvish speech or writing. <> denotes 
Dwarvish, which both Aragorn and Legolas know in this story, and ‘’ 
denotes thoughts of all characters.
Author’s Note#3: Vaad is my invented Elvish word for love, as in “my 
love” or lover.

Book One: In the Past
Chapter One

	John Ronald Reuel Tolkien let his enormous armchair take his 
whole weight as he listened with rapt attention to the story told by the two 
strangers who had materialized on his front porch that morning, just after 
sunrise.
	The blond one brushed his hair behind his ear, giving John a good 
view of its beautiful, delicate, pointed tip, and said softly, “We were 
having trouble holding the Deeping Wall-”
	“Ten thousand against only a few hundred-” the dark-haired man 
beside him put in, and the blond man (elf?- didn’t he say he was an elf?) 
squeezed his hand slightly.
	“And so Ari and Eomer went out with a handful of men to try and 
defend the gates. Unfortunately, they couldn’t stay to defend them long. 
Ari finally stood at the bottom of the long staircase, as all those that could 
got within. I was kneeling at the top of the steps, with only one arrow left, 
poised to kill the first orc that attempted the stairs. Ari’s blade leapt in 
front of him continually, and fear of Anduril kept the orcs at bay.
	“‘Aragorn,’ I shouted, ‘all that can have got within the Keep. 
Come back!’ Ari turned to run up the stairs, but stumbled in his weariness. 
The closest orc died with my last arrow in its throat, but the others jumped 
over him. I was sure they’d kill Ari. Then a boulder crashed from above, 
knocking the orcs back, and he got up the stairs.”
	“I told them, ‘The battle goes ill, my friends.’” The dark-haired 
man continued.
	“Wait a moment!” John begged, holding up his hands. “I want to 
hear the rest of this story, but first I have a few questions, if you don’t 
mind.”
	Legolas nodded. “We’ll answer any we can.” 
	John cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably. “How old are 
you two?”
	Legolas smiled in amusement. “I’m thirteen thousand, eight 
hundred and sixty-one years old. Aragorn’s ten thousand, nine hundred 
and seventy years old.”
	“How did you survive?” He stared openly at Legolas’s ears. 
“Haven’t your-” he blushed slightly- “ears been noticed? For example,” he 
added hurriedly.
	“I’ve told those that have asked that it’s a deformity. But actually, 
people aren’t as observant as you might think.” He grinned. “They didn’t 
even notice I barely leave footprints in the snow.”
	Aragorn shook his head. “No one here is a Ranger, and barely any 
retain even a smattering of their skills. Actually, we had more problems 
hiding that we love each other. It’s still not completely accepted. We’ve 
told many people that Legolas is my son.”
	After taking a moment to digest this, John asked, “What names 
have you given others? Obviously you could not use Aragorn and 
Legolas.”
	“Usually Michael and Daniel, as they are common enough names,” 
Aragorn answered. “Right now, we’re Michael-” he pointed to himself- 
“and Daniel Trey. Our last names change frequently, though, especially if 
we are in danger of being-” He stopped, and glanced at Legolas.
	“*It’s all right, Aragorn,*” Legolas answered in Elvish. Then, 
realizing he was being rude, he translated, “It’s all right, Aragorn. We’ll 
have to tell him the terrible things at some point.” He glanced at Tolkien. 
“We were threatened several times with burning, dismemberment, 
flogging, poisoning…” He fell silent, and shrugged.
	“How have you lived this long?” He glanced at Legolas. “I know 
you told me elves are immortal, but Aragorn is not an elf.”
	“He is immortal now,” the elf answered, grinning mischievously. 
“When Estel was very young, I gave him a drink in a flask that I’d been 
given by my father. It was a very rare potion, and I’ve never found another 
like it.”
	“An immortality potion?” John asked in wonder. “I didn’t know 
such things existed!”
	“They don’t anymore,” Aragorn answered. “What Legolas gave 
me was the second to last dose of it.” He smiled a little. “No one ever 
knew until long after the War of the Ring, and of course by then, it was 
too late.”
	“Why did you give it to him?”
	“It was part of my inheritance,” Legolas answered, “as I am Prince 
of Mirkwood, and I decided to use it on the child I loved like a son of my 
own.”
	Aragorn beamed, a strange expression on that ancient face.
	John shook his head. “This seems more and more impossible.” But 
his eyes were twinkling with fascination, and he longed for all of it to be 
true. “What happened to the other dose?”
	“I gave it to Gimli after the war.” Legolas’s eyes darkened with 
sadness, then, and Aragorn reached around to give him a one-armed hug.
	“He’s been missing for two thousand years,” Aragorn explained in 
a whisper.
	After a long, uncomfortable silence, John murmured, “I’m sure 
he’s still alive. But he’s probably hiding, since dwarves are very rare 
nowadays.”
	Legolas sighed, and then squeezed his eyes shut. He leaned into 
Aragorn’s embrace. “We don’t know where he is.”
	Aragorn changed the subject swiftly. “Let’s continue the story.”
***
	Legolas closed his eyes and laid his head on Aragorn’s shoulder. 
“Well, half the story’s told,” he mumbled, yawning slightly.
	Aragorn kissed his ear. “Yes. Tomorrow we’ll be able to finish it.” 
He paused, and Legolas felt him tense slightly. The elf waited for his lover 
to speak, and finally, Aragorn asked, “Do you think we’ve done the right 
thing by telling him?”
	Legolas nodded. “He’d already guessed we weren’t who we said. 
Besides, doesn’t it feel good to tell someone?” He pushed himself up on 
one elbow so he could look into his lover’s face.
	Aragorn sighed. “Maybe I’m just being cynical-”
	“Probably,” Legolas teased.
	The man grimaced good-naturedly, and continued, “-but I feel as 
though we shouldn’t trust anyone but ourselves.”
	“I like having someone else know where we’ve been. Having you 
to talk to is the only thing that keeps me going many times, but being two 
in the midst of millions can get lonely.” He studied his lover’s face to 
make sure Aragorn wasn’t offended, and when he saw nothing but 
understanding, he continued, “Do you regret telling John our past?”
	Aragorn considered that. “Not yet,” he answered finally, “and 
hopefully we won’t have any cause.” 
	Legolas sighed and laid back down. “I guess that’s the best answer 
I’ll get.” He snuggled into Aragorn’s embrace and fell asleep soon after, 
but Aragorn lay awake for hours, considering.
***
	“I’d like to write this all up,” John announced late the next night. 
“It’s too fascinating to keep to myself.”
	Aragorn shook his head firmly, and his hand dropped to the place 
Anduril should have hung. Though it had been years since he’d worn the 
sword out in public, he sometimes fancied he could feel its weight. “We 
would be hunted down-”
	“That would only happen if you admitted to being Aragorn and 
Legolas,” John pointed out.
	“But if you wrote this as fact-” Aragorn countered.
	“I would call everything my own invention. It’s a worthy tale that 
must be told. Besides, the world needs hope.”
	Aragorn remained silent for a moment. “They’ll think it’s a fairy 
tale.”
	“Except this ‘fairy tale’ will be one with bite to it.” John paused, 
then added, “I’d like to know more about the history behind this war.” He 
gazed in quiet wonder at Legolas, as he had so many times in the past few 
days. “I want to know much more, especially about the elves. I have a 
feeling your people have a vivid history.” Then his eyes turned sort of 
misty, and he added, “And I’d like to know a lot more about hobbits, if 
you can manage it. They remind me of the people I grew up with.”
	“We can’t stay much longer,” Legolas said quietly, glancing 
quickly at his love. “But I’ll write up everything I remember, and mail it to 
you. How’s that?”
	John sighed. “I guess that will have to do,” he answered in 
disappointment.
	
Chapter Two

	Early the next morning, Aragorn and Legolas took their leave of 
John, after Legolas promised again to write up the stories of his people, 
and of the hobbits. Also, upon reflection, he’d promised to send John 
some writings concerning the Men of Westernesse. They headed for the 
airport.
	As they sat down side by side, their bags stowed above them, 
Legolas felt a sudden, vicious tightening in his chest. This was nothing 
unusual: he hated flying. It was a strange paradox; an elf who was so at 
home in trees could barely cope with being up in the air in what Legolas 
called ‘a big, demon, metal bird’. He wasn’t afraid of flying, but he wasn’t 
looking forward to the sickening feeling that rose in his throat every time 
he left the ground.
	Aragorn squeezed his hand, and Legolas glanced at him. Softly, 
the ex-Ranger murmured, “It’s going to be all right, Dan. I’ll hold your 
hair back.”
	Legolas made a face of mock-frustration, but then he smiled. 
“Well, having you touch my hair will be the only pleasant part of this 
flight,” he answered just as quietly.
***
	The airplane’s twentieth lurch made Legolas clutch at his stomach 
with both hands. A moan slipped from his lips, and he looked around for 
another bag. Aragorn rubbed his love’s back with one hand and held his 
hair back with the other as Legolas grasped the bag in front of him and 
threw up.
	“I’m here, Dan,” he breathed as the elf retched and tried to stifle 
his groans.
	The announcement, “Turbulence ahead- please fasten your 
seatbelts”, had been called over the loudspeakers ten minutes ago, but this 
was far beyond any bouncing or shaking that either Aragorn or Legolas 
had ever endured.
	“Ari,” Legolas mumbled, so shaken by the shivering plane that he 
forgot they were supposed to use their other names, “something’s wrong.” 
‘Or maybe something else is on his mind,’ Aragorn decided, seeing the 
apprehension in Legolas’s eyes.
	Aragorn knew Legolas too well to think he was just talking about 
the discomfort in his stomach. “What are you feeling?” he breathed.
	“Cold,” Legolas answered. “Something’s very wrong, Ara-” He 
stopped, and amended, “Mike,” in a voice full of tension.
	When Legolas felt what he had always described as ‘a cold from 
inside’, that usually meant there was evil close by. It had to be evil that 
didn’t usually exist in the ‘real’ world, such as dangerous ghosts, demons 
and krenlins, so Legolas didn’t get the feeling very often.
	“Where is it coming from?” Aragorn asked patiently, forcing 
himself to radiate calm like a beacon. Legolas could usually sense the 
general direction where the feelings originated from.
	“Outside the airplane,” Legolas answered, “all around us. It’s in 
the wind.”
	The plane gave a particularly horrid lurch, and Legolas threw up 
again, and they were both thrown forward. A few people began to talk 
loudly and fearfully, and some children had started crying.
	“Attention please: we are going to head back to London, and you 
will be compensated for this inconvenience. Please accept our most 
sincere apologies.”
	“Bad sign,” Legolas breathed.
	Aragorn nodded, but since he couldn’t do anything about it, he 
simply kept rubbing Legolas’s back. “This has something to do with 
whatever’s out there?”
	“Yes,” Legolas gasped between heaves.
	“Can we help?”
	“No,” Legolas answered, shuddering. “I don’t have the strength, 
and even if I did, I couldn’t risk using any of my skills here.” He didn’t 
have to add that he would draw too much attention to them.
	Shortly after the War of the Ring, Legolas had encountered a 
sorcerer who, after a long, nearly-deadly fight, had rewarded Legolas’s 
intelligence and courage by giving him a sorcerer’s powers.
	Suddenly, the floor seemed to drop out from under Aragorn’s feet, 
and he felt as if he were on a tremendously steep rollercoaster hill. Many 
people around them began to scream. Legolas whispered, “They want us 
dead, Aragorn.”
	Aragorn drew Legolas against him, putting his arm up over 
Legolas’s face, protecting his head in case they were thrown forward 
again. “Remember, the seats can be used to help in the water,” he 
muttered, more to himself than to Legolas. It was frustrating to be facing 
something that he couldn’t fight.
	The airplane leveled out again. “I think we might make it over land 
again,” Legolas murmured, and he brought up one of his hands to give 
Aragorn’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Before they force us down,” he 
added, then glanced up, unconsciously looking for the courage in 
Aragorn’s eyes that he had come to depend on. He found it there, and tried 
to relax.
	Aragorn asked abruptly, as a question flashed across his mind, 
“Are these things, whatever they are, after you and me, or after everyone 
here?”
	Legolas paused, drawing a painful breath. “I’m not sure,” he said 
finally.
	The airplane groaned continually, but they were moving back 
towards the mainland. When the airplane had first left England, it had 
flown south first, looking for gentler winds before heading across the 
ocean. Many people were praying, loudly or softly. At first, Aragorn and 
Legolas remained silent; Aragorn removed his arm from in front of 
Legolas, but he kept his other one around his love’s shoulders.
	Then, as if a switch had been flipped off, the wind stopped. The 
airplane rocked worse than ever as the flight crew found themselves in any 
entirely new situation. The airplane began to dip again.
	“Aragorn,” Legolas whispered, pulling his lover closer, “they’re 
laughing, and shouting our names.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then 
opened them again, forcing himself to stare directly at Aragorn, and at 
nothing else.  “They want us dead.”
	Aragorn drew him close, and kissed him openly. The plane was 
plummeting, and if these were their last moments in this world, he 
wouldn’t hide his love.
	“Are you afraid of death?” Legolas inquired, his eyes narrowed 
slightly as he concentrated only on Aragorn, only on Aragorn… ‘I won’t 
show how sick I feel… Not now… I just want to be with him…’
	“We’ve both been in the Land of the Dead before,” Aragorn 
pointed out, “though not since Gondor fell.” His features clouded slightly, 
then he shook his head. “Actually, I’d like to see a few people…”
	Legolas couldn’t help but smile. “You miss your Rangers,” he 
murmured. “Saru, Halbarad, Kehydi, Aaron and the others.”
	“And my parents,” Aragorn answered. He kissed Legolas again. 
“We’ll be able to see who’s there now.”
	Legolas nodded. “Maybe Gimli… Or Elrond, Glorfindel…” The 
elven prince offered his lover a small smile. The plane seemed to be 
picking up speed. Hurriedly, Legolas nuzzled against him.  “Aragorn, I 
love you.” He tried to keep the smile on his face, but it faltered. “Gorn 
Corn, I love you,” he continued firmly, using the nickname he’d stumbled 
upon over eight thousand years ago.
	“Leggy, you are my strength, my rock, my shield. Without you, 
Leggy, I would yield. You are my all in all,” Aragorn sang softly, and 
Legolas snuggled closer, smiling at the familiar tune. Aragorn’s voice was 
ragged as he fought to remain calm, and the shuddering of the airplane 
gave it unnatural vibrato, but still he sang. “Seeking you as a precious 
jewel, Vaad, to give up, I’d be a fool. You are my all in all.”
	Metal screamed around them, and Aragorn risked a glance out the 
nearby window. The ground was coming up awfully fast- He turned his 
eyes back to Legolas. “I love you, Legolas Greenleaf.”
	“I-”
	The airplane slammed into the ground, the big, metal, demon bird 
committing suicide. The creatures of air that had driven it to its death 
celebrated high above. They exalted that Aragorn and Legolas were dead, 
finally. It wasn’t natural for two such as they to live through all the ages of 
the world. Their prediction of the deaths of Aragorn and Legolas was half-
right.

Chapter Three

	Aragorn opened his eyes, but his body felt as if he had been 
trampled by oliphaunts, and so he didn’t dare move. Instead, he 
concentrated on breathing deeply. Gradually, as his pain faded, he began 
to notice the world around him. He felt the soft, cushiony thing beneath 
him. Is it a bed? he wondered. Then he heard quiet, lovely singing. He 
identified it after an indeterminate time as Elvish singing. Finally, the 
relaxing, comforting perfume of mellorn trees reached him.
	“Where am I?”
	“ You are in the Land of the Dead.  It’s early morning, here, about 
an hour after sunrise.” The man spoke soothingly, and his voice was deep.
	Aragorn grinned as he recognized the voice. “Gandalf,” he 
breathed, and he opened his eyes. The light shimmered around a dim 
shadow that hovered above him.
	For an instant, Aragorn felt unbridled joy, and then he remembered 
the airplane’s shrieking descent towards the earth, people screaming 
around him, Legolas clutched in his arms- “Leggy… Legolas? Where’s 
Legolas?” He tried to sit up, and pain came flowing back, like an ocean 
wave.
	The dim shadow above him had begun to coalesce into a solid 
form. “Stay still, Aragorn. You will recover soon. Just wait for a few 
minutes, and all your injuries from the other world will heal.”
	‘Land of the Dead…’ “Where’s Legolas?” he demanded; as fear 
flared, bile rose sickeningly into his throat. He knew, suddenly, positively, 
what had happened, but he pleaded for it not to be true.
	Gandalf said very gently, “Legolas is in the Land of the Living, 
Aragorn.”
	“How…” But breath failed him, and so he continued silently, 
‘How could he be living still? How could he live after the airplane 
crashed? How could I be stuck here, and he be trapped there?’
	“He was blessed-or cursed-with Elven strength,” said another 
voice nearby, as if in answer to his questions. “It kept him alive.”
      Aragorn turned his head quickly, but that simple movement caused 
him to grit his teeth in pain.  He knew that voice… “Mom…” 
	The old woman knelt beside him, and took his hand. “I’m here, 
Estel. All’s well; Legolas will join us in time.”
	“I don’t want him to live alone,” Aragorn whispered, and tears 
pricked at his eyes. “Couldn’t we bring him here? Or… can I go back?” 
He thought of the countless times he and his vaad had slipped between the 
worlds almost as easily as jumping over a streamlet. “Why… Why didn’t 
he use the Dwarven Death Call?”
	Dwarves have the ability to call certain of their friends and family 
back from the Dead Lands. It is a loud, sharp, echoing bellow that must be 
raised within two hours of death. It was created by the Valar to help the 
dwarves, as there were so few of them, to keep their race alive. Gimli was 
the first dwarf to use this on other species, and he had taught it to Aragorn 
and Legolas as well.
	“He could not because he was unconscious for more than two 
hours. Even if he had,” Gandalf continued as Aragorn focused on him 
again, “the Valar would not have allowed you to return. They have 
decreed you will stay here.”
	“But what about Legolas?”
	“He has a task to complete,” Gandalf told him. “I don’t profess to 
know the minds of the Valar, but they have said that Legolas must fulfill a 
promise he made to a man before they will permit him to die.”
	Aragorn frowned, then he remembered. “Legolas promised John he 
would write up all the Elvish tales.” He sighed. “Then it will be a long 
time before he dies.”
	“Since you cannot help him at present, will you come and see your 
men? They have missed you.”
	Aragorn hesitated. “He’ll be all right?” the man asked quietly, 
seeking reassurance in the wizard’s eyes as Legolas had sought strength in 
his own.
	“Yes, Estel, he will be well.”
	The man turned his head quickly, and this time he was not 
rewarded with pain, but with freedom of movement. The voice that had 
spoken had not been Gandalf’s. “Father…”
	Elrond smiled, and held out a hand.
	Aragorn caught the older elf’s hand, surprised as sudden strength 
flooded into his limbs. He got up.
	“You’re home now, Estel.”
	The sound of running feet approached, and voices were shouting. 
“Strider! Strider! Aragorn…”
	The ex-Ranger glanced behind his father, and words failed him. He 
broke away from Elrond and brushed past him without noticing. His eyes 
filled with tears, and he couldn’t stop them, even if he had realized he was 
crying. He staggered closer, and calloused hands caught him; hands 
calloused rough and hard, but hands that remained gentle for all that.
	“Strider… Aragorn… ” It was Saru’s voice. He supported Aragorn 
with one arm, and then he drew his king against his chest.
	Aragorn closed his eyes, and happy tears trickled down his cheeks. 
“Saru…” He looked up suddenly, as another hand touched him, and his 
lower lip quivered like a child’s. He still didn’t care. “Halbarad…” There 
were others there, moving to stand very close. “Kehydi, Jamien, Aaron, 
Brey, Malachi,” he breathed, looking into their faces one by one. Then he 
laughed, and straightened, turning to embrace his other Rangers.
	Gimli was not there. “He’s still alive,” Gimli’s mother told him 
when Aragorn finally found her. “He has never been here.” Aragorn 
couldn’t decide if he was happy or grieved about that news. He knew only 
that he was confused. How had Gimli survived? Being a dwarf in a world 
of Men was very dangerous.
	He put that thought aside, however. ‘If only Legolas was here… 
this would be perfect.’ Aragorn closed his eyes. He knew, deep in his 
heart, that when the joy of seeing his friends and family had faded, he 
would have to approach the Valar and beg for- what? To let him see 
Legolas? To return him to the Living World?

Chapter Four

	Gimli, son of Gloin, lay down and closed his eyes. Clearing his 
mind of all that had happened that day, he prayed to the Valar. “Thank 
you,” he whispered into the darkness. “Thank you for giving me the gift of 
turning my body into that of a man. Now I am able to walk out in public 
without fear. Thank you for the blessings this freedom gives me.” He 
paused. “Thank you for protecting Aragorn and Legolas. I have not heard 
of them in ten years, but no news is good news, I think. Please continue to 
watch over me and let me know when I may rejoin them. Thank you.”
	His prayer finished, he allowed other thoughts to enter his mind. 
Yes, the Valar had blessed him with this new body, but they were testing 
him, also. He hadn’t seen another of his kind in millennia, and strong as he 
was, he hated being in isolation. Dwarves were accused of being 
separatists, but they stayed separate from the rest of the world, together, as 
a group, in the halls of their fathers.
	Then there was the separation from Aragorn and Legolas, 
especially Legolas, his closest friend, closer than family or any of the 
hobbits or the king of Gondor. He had come to depend on Legolas after 
the Lonely Mountain was deserted, and the dwarves scattered, to die in 
small pockets one by one. For eight thousand years, he had traveled with 
Legolas and Aragorn, sometimes feeling like the fifth wheel on a dwarf-
cart, but mostly feeling as though they needed and depended on him, too. 
	Suddenly, he couldn’t lie still anymore. He jumped out of bed and 
began to pace. “Please, Valar, let me see them again. I need them.” Tears 
threatened to spill out, as they had many times before, and he shoved them 
away fiercely. “I will not show my weakness,” he growled, repeating his 
mantra.
	Pacing didn’t help. It only made him more desperate to be doing 
something useful instead of just wasting time, hoping, praying and feeling 
miserable. Not for the first time, he thought about suicide; how easy it 
would be. But what if Legolas’s belief that those who committed suicide 
went to hell was true? After all, Gimli hadn’t believed in the Valar for a 
long time, until Legolas and Aragorn had come back from the Land of the 
Dead and told him all that they had seen.
	“I hate being singled out like this!” John shouted suddenly, 
needing to hear a voice, even though it was just his own. The tears came 
again, and he imagined he heard Legolas answer, “So do all free people, 
but we’ll be together again. Trust me, Gimli.”
	“No,” the dwarf muttered, “it’s not that simple, Legolas. For 
thousands of years, we’ve been on the outside of every house, every 
society, looking in, trying to make a difference in the world, wondering 
why we’re still here. You and Aragorn have each other, but who’s here for 
me? Just for me? No one, that’s who! 
      “Well, I wish you hadn’t given me that immortality potion- I wish 
you’d just let me die! You could have faced this all alone, then you’d 
know how I feel!” He gasped, and stopped. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I 
didn’t mean that, Legolas, I didn’t mean it…” He dissolved into tears, and 
collapsed on his bed. He cried himself to sleep.

Chapter Five

	Legolas moaned.
	Everything hurt. Fire ran from the top of his head, down his neck, 
through his torso and stabbed into both legs.
	He shivered.
	‘“I love you, Legolas Greenleaf.”
	‘We’re going to die… I can feel it. The airplane’s going to crash.’
	He felt no fear.
       ‘I only need to hold Aragorn close. I need him near me. 
Aragorn… Gorn Corn, I love you… Ari, Vaad, Estel, just stay near me. 
We’ll die together. I’ll see you in the Dead Lands. “I-”’
	Blackness took him, and he drifted for endless hours.
	The pain had awoken him. He moaned, then opened his eyes. 
White light surrounded him. He squinted, annoyed that his excellent 
Elvish sight was being frustrated by the brightness.
	“Can you hear me?” a voice asked out of the light.
	‘Aragorn?’ he thought hopefully. “Yes.” His voice sounded dry 
and cracked. Where were his usually smooth Elven tones?
	“Who are you?” the voice continued, and slowly a man formed out 
of the brilliance. Legolas squinted harder, trying to see the face.
	‘How can he not know?’ “It’s me, L-Daniel.” His instincts 
prompted him to use the pseudonym he’d acquired several hundred years 
ago.
	“Daniel what?”
	“Trey… Who are you?”
	“My name is Doctor Oyer.”
	As his head began to clear, Legolas wondered how he could have 
mistaken that high-pitched, creaky voice for Aragorn’s. He asked 
carefully, “Where am I?”
	“You’re in Brownsborough Hospital, outside London.”
	‘I’m still in England. That means the airplane made it back safely- 
no. It definitely crashed. We must have crashed on land.’ “I need to find 
my father,” he told the doctor.
	“What is his name?”
	“Michael Trey.”
	“I’ll go and view the list of survivors,” the doctor said as gently as 
possible.
	‘He was right next to me, holding me. He must have lived.’ Even 
as the thought crossed his mind, Legolas had a sinking feeling. It was too 
good to be true, that they had both survived. ‘But the Valar wouldn’t 
separate us. They know how much we need each other. Unless… unless 
this is another test.’
	The Valar, upon discovering that Legolas had given Aragorn 
immortality, and realizing that the two didn’t want to go to the Undying 
Lands, that they would live on in Middle Earth for millennia, had begun 
putting challenges in their way, making them prove that they were strong 
enough, intelligent enough, loving enough, honest enough, in other words, 
deserving of such a life together. Aragorn and Legolas called these 
setbacks and threats tests, refusing to be intimidated. They had come 
through every other test, usually with a profit to themselves.
	‘If this is a test, we’ll meet it head-on. Send your worst, Valar; my 
vaad and I are ready for you.’

Chapter Six

	Under the glowing, triumphant, blessedly warm, late spring sun, 
the mellorn trees hummed. They stood, surrounding an open clearing. A 
few birds sang from branch to branch, but not too loudly. Mostly, they 
listened. A fox sat regally under a bush that fanned him, as if it knew that 
what sat under it honored everything nearby. A man stood quietly, 
deferentially, in the very center of the clearing.
      “You’ll see him when his task is done,” the great, grey-white fox 
told the man.
	Aragorn bowed slightly, but his need to see Legolas was still 
burning under his skin like a thin layer of steam. “Please, sir,” he bowed 
again, “how will he know what he has to do?”
	“You may send him a message in a dream, but you must be quick, 
and you can’t tell him he’s going to be brought here afterwards. Just tell 
him what to do, give what reassurance you can, and get out. Do you 
understand?”
	Aragorn nodded, bowing again, grateful that he’d be able to see 
Legolas, if only briefly. Also, he was excited- ‘Legolas will come here 
after he’s finished writing up all those tales!’ Then a question occurred to 
him. “Please, sir-”
	But the fox was gone.
	Aragorn sighed in frustration. ‘Of course, it couldn’t just be 
simple. He couldn’t just tell me what to do.’ Feeling mingled annoyance, 
excitement and just a slight bit of amusement, Aragorn left the clearing. 
Behind him, the birds began to sing joyously. 
Did you see the fox’s eyes? 
Wiser than his kind’s should be. 
Quicker than an eagle’s eye is his intellect.
	Aragorn smiled to himself. At first, he’d been surprised that he 
could understand the birds’ songs, but he’d been hearing it for so long that 
he barely took notice. He strode into a grove of towering mellorn trees. 
Several elves looked up as he walked past.
	“Would he see you, Dunedan?” Glorfindel asked, approaching 
him. He fell into step beside him and they headed towards an 
exceptionally tall mellorn tree, which had a long, silver, Elven-rope ladder 
hanging down from above. They climbed, Aragorn first.
	“Yes, he deigned to speak to me,” Aragorn answered, glancing 
back briefly. “He even told me a way to talk to Legolas.” A smile lit his 
features, and he looked much younger for a moment.
	Glorfindel grinned, his ancient eyes brightening. “How will you 
see him?”
	“Somehow, I’ll get into one of his dreams. The fox- that’s the form 
the Valar took- didn’t tell me how to do it. I guess he couldn’t make 
everything simple.”
	“Be respectful,” Glorfindel cautioned, but not severely. “Besides, 
it’s very easy to get into his dreams.”
	Reaching the top of the stairs, he pulled himself up onto a 
platform.  Elrond, Celebrain, Elladan and Erestor seemed to be waiting for 
him. They had certainly heard him coming. Elladan stood and offered 
Aragorn a sip from the silver cup he held. The man drank deeply, then 
passed it to Glorfindel, who declined and set it to one side. Then the two 
of them joined the others where they sat in a circle on the floor of the flet.
	“Join hands,” Elrond commanded.
	‘Sounds like a séance,’ Aragorn thought.
	Glorfindel shot him a sidelong glance, and Aragorn had the 
strangest impression that the ancient elf had heard him. He closed his eyes. 
On his right, Glorfindel took his hand, and on his other side, Elladan 
grasped his other hand.
	Elrond began to chant. “*From one world to another, we call and 
bid you answer. Legolas Greenleaf, Legolas Greenleaf, come to me. Listen 
to my voice and come nearer. Legolas, can you hear me?* Aragorn, 
continue, please. Call to him.”
	Aragorn hesitated for a moment, then whispered slowly, 
“*Legolas, I need to talk to you. Come talk to me, Leggy. I love you. 
Come talk to me.*” He stopped, tempted to open his eyes, but held his 
peace.
***
	Legolas knew, faintly, that he was dreaming, and yet the dream 
held him. There were waterfalls all around him, shimmering different 
colors, singing warm songs. He was sitting on a large, smooth boulder, 
and the sun warmed his face. He closed his eyes contentedly.
	“*Legolas, I love you. Come talk to me.*”
	The elf opened his eyes and jumped up so fast that he would have 
skidded and fallen if he hadn’t been an elf. “Aragorn!” He looked around 
wildly. “*Where are you?*”
	The waterfalls continued to sing, but he couldn’t see his lover.
	“Legolas, listen to me. Do you remember telling John you would 
write all the stories about elves and hobbits, so that he could have them?”
	Legolas frowned. “Where are you?”
	“I can’t tell you. Please, Leggy, answer my question.”
	“Yes, I remember. Aragorn, what’s going on?”
	“I need you to write them up as soon as possible. Please.”
	“Why?”
	“Legolas, I love you, and I need you to trust me. I can’t explain 
right now.”
	Legolas hesitated. “All right, Vaad; I trust you.”
	There was a pause, and then Aragorn stepped through one of the 
waterfalls. The water didn’t rest on him. He stepped nearer, and Legolas 
ran forward to meet him. Aragorn took his vaad in his arms. “I can’t stay 
long,” he whispered. “I love you. Do what I’ve asked. It’s very important, 
Legolas.” He kissed Legolas fervently, and the elf gasped in pleasure, and 
felt his elfhood grow hard.
	Aragorn grinned, and reached down to stroke the hardness he 
found beneath Legolas’s tights.
	A voice from inside another waterfall spoke, sounding amused. 
“Come on, Dunedan- let’s go.”
	Aragorn sighed. “I’m coming, Glorfindel.” He hugged Legolas 
very close for a moment, then released him. “Don’t forget to finish those 
stories.” He turned and passed through the waterfall.
      
      Legolas woke up, feeling glad, grieved, and confused. ‘What good 
is writing about elves? Why would he come back to tell me? How did he 
come back?’ He knew, suddenly, and without question, that Aragorn was 
dead, and had spoken to him from the Dead Lands. Legolas balled his 
hands into fists, and only grief remained in his mind. ‘How else could Ari 
have been in my dreams so clearly, and not be affected by my thoughts? If 
that had been simply my dream, we would have had sex all night.’ He 
sighed and laid very still, thinking. ‘Gorn Corn,’ his eyes filled with tears, 
‘I’ll do what you say… but how will it help? I miss you…’
***
	Aragorn blinked. He realized his hands were shaking, and he 
glanced down at them, where they lay in his lap. His attention was 
attracted briefly by the bulge barely visible under his tunic. He blushed 
slightly.
	Glorfindel chuckled. “Legolas understood,” he said, looking away 
from Aragorn and meeting Elrond’s eyes.

Chapter Seven

	‘What will I call this?’ Legolas wondered idly as he stared down at 
the large book he’d written in. After he’d healed enough to leave the 
hospital, he’d returned to John’s house, begging to stay so he could finish 
his writings. He’d told John about the dream, but the man hadn’t been able 
to suggest anything.
	Legolas frowned at the paper, then glanced up to watch the snow 
race down the window. ‘It’s been ten months,’ he mourned. More than 
once, he’d wanted to forget the stories and commit suicide. One thing 
stopped him. Elves who committed suicide didn’t go to the Dead Lands- 
they went to Helle. And if he did that, he would never see Aragorn again.
	He closed his eyes. ‘Aragorn, why did you have to die and leave 
me like this?’ Then guilt leapt into his throat, and he dropped his head into 
his hands. Tears stung his eyes. “I’m sorry, Vaad,” he whispered. “I didn’t 
mean it. I didn’t mean-” Sobs closed his throat, but he swallowed past 
them and opened his eyes. “I have to finish this, don’t I, Ari?” He looked 
down at the book again, and the title popped suddenly into his mind. He 
wrote in his fluid hand The Hobbit.
***
	“You won’t be here when Legolas appears,” Glorfindel told 
Aragorn gently.
	The Ranger groaned, then bowed his head. “The Valar is 
determined to keep us separated as long as possible.” He glanced over at 
Glorfindel. “Where am I being sent? Or when?”
	“You’re going to be reborn.” The ancient, blond elf laughed. “So 
will Legolas, but not for a long time.”
	Aragorn didn’t see what was funny. “We’ll be turned into babies?”
	“Yes.” Another chuckle escaped his lips as he pictured a baby 
Aragorn and Legolas. He remembered two-year old Estel, and couldn’t 
help but smile..
	“But, we won’t remember anything… will we?”
	“Not for a while,” Glorfindel admitted.
	“Another blasted test.”
	“Yes,” he said again, his eyes twinkling. “And something else you 
should know-” But he stopped, wanting Aragorn to ask him.
      The Ranger obliged him. “What’s that, Lord Glorfindel?” He 
bowed half-seriously. “Pray, tell your humble servant.”
      “You won’t be the only ones given new life. The Valar need more 
of us there. For help, protection, healing…” He smiled, enjoying torturing 
the man. “You’re not going to have time to worry about it. You’ll be 
disappearing in five.... four…”
      “How do you know all this? You’re not in with the Valar, are 
you?”
      “…one…”
      Aragorn disappeared.

Interlude
Chapter Eight

	John Rhys-Davies rolled over in his sleep and uttered a sleepy 
grunt. Someone was prodding him, trying to wake him, and he didn’t want 
to open his eyes.
	“John-” poke- “John… Johnny-” poke poke punch- “Gimli son of 
Gloin, get up!”
	John jerked awake, and struggled to open his eyes. “Who-?” he 
grunted foggily.
	“It’s me, Gimli.”
	Someone was smiling at him. John could see the smile, even 
though he couldn’t see the rest of the face. There seemed to be a bright 
light behind the person- no, shining from the person. John squinted.
	“Do you like my halo?” The person was laughing now. “Lady 
Galadriel loaned it to me. She thought I would get your attention easier 
this way. So much for that; dwarves sleep through everything unless gold 
is shoved up their nose.”
	‘Why does that voice sound so familiar?’ John finally forced his 
mind awake. He sniffed the air as a familiar, but long-gone smell reached 
him. ‘Pipe weed…’ His mouth watered- he couldn’t help it. “Gandalf?” he 
guessed.
	“Very good. Now, try focusing your eyes. I’m right in front of 
you.”
	Ignoring that, John sat up.
	“That is something I could have gone another ten thousand years 
without seeing,” the wizard informed him as the sheet slipped down to 
Gimli’s waist, exposing his bare, hairy chest.
	The first question in John’s mind was not “Am I dreaming?” He 
knew himself too well to ask that. He’d been alive to long for such 
incredulous questions. Besides, after all the bizarre things he’d seen in his 
long lifetime, a supposedly-dead wizard standing next to his bed was not 
the most amazing. The first question he asked was, “Do you have any 
pipe-weed?”
	The wizard produced a pipe and some leaves. “it’s not much, but 
maybe it will help to clear your mind.”
	Gimli grabbed at it, fumbling in his excitement. Once he was 
smoking contentedly, he asked another question. “What are you doing 
here? Did the Valar send you back?”
	“No. I’m a vision.” Gandalf’s laughter was the sound of hammers 
ringing on good, mithril-filled rock. “I’m not really here.”
	John at last got his eyes to obey him and he stared up at the slightly 
glowing, vaguely transparent wizard. “Then how-”
	“The pipe-weed is a gift. I’m here with a message from the Valar. 
You’ve done well, always hiding, waiting patiently. Your waiting is over. 
You will see your friends again soon.”
	“I’ll be able to see Legolas and Aragorn again? When?” John 
jumped out of bed, forgetting the pipe in his hand, which clattered to the 
floor unnoticed. Gandalf took a step back to allow him to stand.
	“In a few weeks. But they are not Aragorn and Legolas. Not yet. 
They have different names, different appearances. But you will know them 
when you see them. And you’re going to have to teach them,” he went on, 
enjoying the shocked look John turned on him for that last statement. 
“They won’t remember who they are. The Valar will start sending them 
clues, when they think the two of them are ready. You’ll have to guide 
them. When they are ready to believe, the Valar will return their 
memories.”
	John struggled with that for a moment. “How will I know them?”
	“They will show their characteristics to you, if you’re watching.” 
Because John still looked confused, Gandalf offered, “Legolas will show a 
remarkable ability for learning Elvish, for instance, and Aragorn will cling 
to his sword.”
      “What if I don’t know them?”
      Gandalf sighed. “There will be others there to help, but it’s been 
laid on you to help them find themselves in the beginning.”
      “Will you be there?”
	“Possibly.”
      And because he knew Gandalf wouldn’t be any more forthcoming 
than that, John answered slowly, “All right. When will I know the right 
time?”
	“The Valar’s clues will be very obvious. You’ll know.” Gandalf’s 
smile faltered for a brief instant. “I’m sorry; that’s all they’ll let me tell 
you. Just be on your guard. Keep watch, as Aragorn used to say, in the late 
hours of the night, and you’ll see them.” He faded out.
	Gimli, son of Gloin, glanced down and saw that the pipe and weed 
had disappeared with the wizard. He got up and went to take his shower. 
Despite uncertainties and questions that continued to chase each other 
around in his mind, he now had hope, and the word of Gandalf, to sustain 
him. Hope was something he had done without for far too long. His step 
was lighter than it had been in a hundred years.

Book Two: Revelations
Chapter Nine

	Orlando Bloom struggled to focus on the people standing above 
him. When his vision had finally stopped dancing, he grinned up at Peter 
Jackson, John Rhys-Davies, Elijah Wood and Viggo Mortenson. “I’m 
fine,” he assured them. “I just fell, that’s all. I ran too fast-”
	“I think maybe you should stop doing your own stunts,” Peter 
suggested for the twentieth time, and with the same results as always.
	“Nope,” Orlando laughed, getting up. He swayed a little, and John 
caught him by his shoulders.
	“Maybe we should just wait a little while before trying that again,” 
Elijah suggested. He shook his head firmly as Orlando tried to speak 
again. “Orlando, you need time to catch your breath.”
	“Nope,” Orlando repeated, more seriously. “I’m all set, ready to 
keep going.” 
	“I think we should put the net back under the trees,” Viggo said 
suddenly. He spoke quietly, but everyone heard him.
	“Agreed,” John said. He felt Orlando took too many risks. He’d 
taken a quick liking to the young actor, and felt almost like his protector. 
And while Orlando was no substitute for Legolas, until John saw and 
recognized his friend again, Orlando was a good, trustworthy person, and 
he was one of the first people John had become friends with on this 
project.
	A shadow flitted across John’s face as he thought of Legolas. 
According to Gandalf, he should have spotted him years ago, but he was 
no closer to figuring what new identity Legolas had taken on. And he 
really wasn’t even looking for Aragorn, though he would never admit that 
to himself. All he really wanted to find was Legolas. He consoled himself 
with the thought that when he found Legolas, Aragorn wouldn’t be too far 
away.
	“This scene doesn’t have to be filmed for another week,” Peter 
pointed out. “This episode won’t be aired for another month.”
	After the success of the three movies compromising The Lord of 
the Rings, Peter had suggested making a television show based on the 
Tolkien-created universe. So far, the idea had received wide acclaim and 
many fans of the movie had quickly become avid fans of the T.V. show.
	Peter continued, “We can finish Hobbit Hoaxes in the meantime. 
Besides, I want you and Viggo to get to work on Aragorn’s Question.”
	Orlando frowned. “I still think it won’t work,” he told the director.
      “You agreed to try it,” Peter reminded him.
      ”I know,” Orlando sighed. He glanced at Viggo, and the older man 
shrugged. The two of them walked away together.
      “They act like I’m a child,” Orlando muttered, shuffling his feet as 
they walked.
      Viggo said softly, “They’re just worried about you.” He smiled. 
“Peter doesn’t want to lose the sexiest elf he’s ever had.”
      Orlando knew better than to take this as an attempt at flirtation. 
Viggo was speaking of the opinions of the fans.  A phrase the ‘hobbits’ 
had invented could be easily applied to Viggo: he walks the straight side 
of the river.
      ‘And me? Which side do I walk?’ He knew himself too well to lie. 
He would not deny that he was attracted to Viggo, but he would rather 
keep his thoughts to himself than run the risk of hurting their friendship. 
Viggo was very quiet, had always been so, and very confined in his 
thoughts and actions. He would wait for the older man to speak on that 
subject before he would admit his feelings. ‘Besides, why would Viggo 
want to be with me? He used to be married; he has a son.’
      “Are we ready for this one?” Viggo asked suddenly. When 
Orlando glanced at him, he grinned. “I’ve never tried anything like this 
before. I’ve never played a homosexual…” He chuckled. “Orli, do you 
think Aragorn and Legolas could be gay?”
      Orlando shook his head. “No,” he started to say, but then he fell 
silent. “They’re not in the book,” he pointed out.
      “True, but could the book be read that way?” He shrugged. “I don’t 
know, but we’ll try it.” Then he hesitated, but spoke his mind after a 
moment. “Have you ever kissed a man?” 
	“No.” Orlando glanced at him. “You?” He skipped a little as his 
irritation towards Peter passed. His spirits never stayed low for long.
      “No.” He smiled slightly. “I guess we’ll learn.”
      “Let’s work on our lines first,” Orlando suggested.
      “Your place or mine?” Viggo asked. “Or near the pond?”
      “It’s too nice to be inside,” Orlando answered.
      “Agreed. Why don’t we get our scripts and meet by the pond in ten 
minutes?”
      “Okay.”
***
      Viggo read through the beginning of the first scene quickly, 
refreshing his memory. He had studied it at length, but that had been 
several nights ago. 
//Setting: A forest in Middle Earth, early autumn. Aragorn and Legolas are 
in the midst of fighting orcs. Aragorn is stabbed from behind, and he 
staggers forward.//
	Viggo glanced at Orlando. “Are you ready?”
	Orlando stopped swinging his legs. He, too, had been rereading the 
script. “Ready.” He flashed a grin. “How good are you at faking a mortal 
wound?”
	“Who says it’s deadly? Aragorn has to live, at least through this 
season, right?” His eyes twinkled. “But, to answer your question, I can 
fake it.”
	Orlando considered that for a moment. Then he shrugged and 
grinned. Glancing down briefly, he then looked up and there was anger in 
his eyes. //Legolas rushes to Aragorn’s side, killing three orcs that stand in 
his way. The others flee, fearing the flashing, fire-blue, Elvish eyes.//
	“Aragorn.” //Legolas drops to his knees, his knives falling from his 
trembling hands. “Elessar, can you hear me?”
	Viggo gasped. “Legolas…”
	//Legolas gently touches Aragorn’s back.// “I need to remove the 
blade, Aragorn. Hold still.” //Legolas pulls the knife out quickly and 
cleanly. Aragorn cries out.//
	“Legolaahhh!”
	Orlando snorted.
	Viggo glanced at him. “What?” But his mouth pulled at the 
corners.
	“Legolaahhh!” Orlando imitated. “Is that my name now?”
	Viggo chuckled. “Maybe, if you like it. How are you doing, 
Legolaahhh?”
	Orlando thought furiously for a moment. “Just fine, Gorn Corn,” 
he shot back.
	Viggo blinked. “Gorn Corn?” he repeated, confused.
	Orlando looked surprised, too, but then he smiled. “I don’t know. 
It just works. Ara-Gorn. Gorn Corn.” He shrugged, then snickered as he 
took in Viggo’s half-amused, half-confused expression.
	“Okay…” Viggo said slowly.
	Orlando glanced back at the script. “Let’s keep going,” he invited, 
restraining a smile. His eyes filled with worry. “Sh… Everything’s all 
right, Aragorn. Just lay still.”
	Viggo closed his eyes. “Legolas…” He gasped, his voice ragged.
	“Sh… You need to lay still. It’s all right- they’re gone.” //Legolas 
puts his hands on Aragorn’s back.// “I’m going to heal you.”
	“Were- were you hurt?”
	Orlando shook his head. “No, I’m fine. How’s that?” //Legolas lifts 
his hands from Aragorn’s back.//
	“Much better.” //Aragorn sits up.// “We need to leave here, before 
the orcs return. I have the feeling they were sent by someone- did you 
notice the mark on their left shoulders?”
	Orlando nodded. “Yes. Twas a black bow with a red arrow across 
it.”
	“Does that symbol mean anything to you?” //Aragorn stands.//
	“No. It is a mark wholly strange to me.” //Legolas cleans his 
knives on a shredded orc-tunic.// “Besides, if you have not seen it, Ranger 
of the North, there is little chance anyone else knows it.” Orlando smiled 
teasingly.
	Viggo smiled slightly. “Thank you,” he answered, bowing. //The 
two of them begin to walk.// “Let’s go back to camp and find Gimli. He’ll 
be frustrated that he wasn’t here to hew orc necks.”
	Viggo and Orlando both read the nest scene quickly.
//Blackout. Refocus on two shining figures, a man and a woman, sitting on 
thrones in what appears to be the middle of nothingness.//
Female Valar (FV): They have taken up the challenge.
Male Valar (MV): As we knew they would, my dear. Legolas and Aragorn 
have been through too many tasks not to rise to this test. And who better to 
test them than us, the all-powerful Valar, wisest of all beings?
FV: How will you force the human to lay his heart bare?
MV: I will use whatever situation presents itself.
FV: I believe the elf will deny him.
MV: That certainly would make things more interesting.
//Blackout. Fade in on Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli walking through the 
woods.//
	Viggo murmured, “The trail is easy to follow. These orcs enjoy 
destroying every growing thing in their path.”
	//Gimli grunts. “Sounds familiar.” //
	//Legolas raises his head and grabs Aragorn’s arm.// Orlando lifted 
his head slightly. “Do you hear-”
	“Orlando! Viggo!”
	Viggo turned his head, and he laughed in surprise. “I hear 
something that’s not orcs,” he told Orlando as he watched Liv Tyler run 
towards them.
	“You’re late!” she shouted. “Did you forget we have a dinner to go 
to?”
	Orlando groaned. “I wanted to forget,” he muttered to Viggo. It 
was always extra hard for Orlando to hold still while everyone around him 
talked about what he called ‘rain, wind and fluff.’

Chapter Ten

	Peter sat back in his chair. “All right, we filmed up through the 
capture scene yesterday, so let’s start with the scene on the bed.”
	The three men dressed as orcs approached. Orlando nodded to the 
only one he recognized through the make-up- he was easily the tallest and 
most hideous of the three. “Hi, Richard.” He swung his legs as he sat on 
the edge of the ‘bed’, which was actually a pallet covered with tattered 
rags.
	Richard gave a mock-salute. Then he turned to his left and 
gestured. “This is Michael and that’s Craig.”
	“Hello, Orlando. It’s a pleasure.” Michael had a very deep voice 
which was well-suited to an orc. It was still a fair, strong and yet gentle 
voice.
	“Places, everyone!” Peter shouted.
	Orlando glanced around as Viggo appeared, in full Aragorn gear, 
his hair greased and hanging around his shoulders. Orlando was glad he’d 
opted for a wig instead of having to grow his hair out. Viggo claimed it 
was easier, but Orlando pointed out that Viggo only had to grow it to just 
past his shoulders.
	“Ready for this?” Viggo whispered, grinning.
	Orlando nodded. “At least if it doesn’t work, Peter will know 
within a few days and we won’t have to do this again.”
	“Do you want it not to work?” Viggo sat on the edge of the bed 
and leaned towards Orlando.
	‘If it worked, I could have an excuse to lay next to you in nothing 
but my boxers.’ “I still don’t think Aragorn and Legolas are gay,” he 
replied, not answering Viggo’s question.
	Viggo winked. “Well, if the fans agree with you, it will have 
proved your point.”
	Peter suddenly cleared his throat loudly. They both looked up, 
startled. Orlando was slightly amused to see a blush cross Viggo’s 
features.
	“Sorry, Peter,” Viggo murmured, and he stood, realizing that he’d 
laid down next to Orlando.
	“I think this Aragorn-Legolas thing will work just fine,” Richard 
muttered to Orlando, who blushed in his turn.
	“Places,” Peter called again, sounding more amused than angry, for 
which Orlando and Viggo were very grateful.
	A tall man dressed as a blonde-haired elf moved towards the pallet 
as two make-up people tied Orlando’s hands to the bedposts. They didn’t 
use real knots, but it felt real enough. Orlando felt his heart racing slightly 
with excitement. One reason he had chosen to become an actor was for the 
adrenaline rush.
	“Action,” called Peter.
***
      The elf sank down beside Legolas on the bed and touched him 
between his legs. “Do you know who I am, little one?”
	Legolas twitched, but he was too frightened to fight, even though 
his feet were unbound. “Tragel…”
	“That’s Uncle Tragel to you, little whore. You’re mine again, and 
this time no one will save you.” He began to pull down Legolas’s 
leggings.
	Legolas whimpered. “Please…”
	“Are you afraid of me, little one?” Tragel began to unfasten his 
own britches.
	“Yes…”
***
	“Do you know who I am, little one?”
	Orlando made a show of pulling against the ropes. “Tragel…” he 
croaked.
	“That’s Uncle Tragel to you, little whore.” The actor moved so that 
he was shielding his movements. It looked as though he were stroking 
Orlando between his legs. “You’re mine again, and this time-”
	A sudden, sheering pain ran through Orlando, from his groin to his 
chest and back down. He cried out and pulled out of the ropes as he curled 
into a ball. The pain faded slowly, but he didn’t relax. Voices reached him, 
but they frightened him instead of calming him.
	“Orlando?” asked the actor playing Tragel.
	“Orli, what is it?” Peter called.
	“What’s wrong?” A hand touched his shoulder, and Orlando 
jerked. He looked up quickly, nameless terror blazing in his eyes. 
      Viggo was bending over him. “Orlando?” Viggo withdrew his 
hand. “What’s wrong?” he repeated, speaking more quietly.
	Orlando’s eyes cleared slowly as he recognized the man. “V-
Viggo?” He uncurled slightly. His hands were shaking, and he tried to 
keep them still.
	Viggo reached out slowly, making sure Orlando could see each 
movement. “Orlando… it’s me, Viggo.” He touched Orlando’s shoulder 
again, and the younger man didn’t flinch.
	Orlando sat up. Blinking, he looked around. Everyone was gazing 
at him with varying degrees of concern.
	“What is it?” Peter asked again, walking towards the pallet.
	“I’m not sure,” Orlando murmured. The pain had faded, but he felt 
confused. “I felt… pain… agony… in my-my stomach and chest. But it’s 
gone now.”
	Peter frowned. “Has this happened before?”
	“No… not on set, at least.”
	“Where and when have you felt like this before?” Peter asked in 
his most commanding tone.
	Orlando hesitated. Truth be told, he didn’t know, but he was sure 
he’d felt it at some point. “I can’t remember; I just know I have. Not 
recently,” he offered. Then he added, because Peter looked very worried, 
“I’m fine now. Maybe it was just a strained muscle or something.”
	Peter frowned, and seemed ready to argue, but John appeared out 
of no where at that moment and came to Orlando’s rescue. “The last time 
he felt it, it was because he’d eaten chocolate. Have you had any today, 
Orlando?”
	Realizing that John was trying to make his passing pain seem as 
ordinary as possible, Orlando lied quickly, “There was some in the desert I 
had last night. I ate it without realizing there was chocolate in it. I was 
hoping it would just sort of pass through me, but I guess it had to remind 
me I’m allergic.”
	“That’s the strangest allergic reaction I’ve ever seen,” said Peter 
skeptically.
	“Honestly, Peter, I’m all right. If I feel like this again, we can stop 
the shoot for the day. But right now we have a deadline to meet.”
	Because Orlando was right, and because Peter knew it was useless 
to argue with the young actor, he answered, “Fine. Just make sure to let 
me know if anything, anything at all, feels wrong.”
	“Agreed.”
***
	“That’s Uncle Tragel to you, little whore. You’re mine again, and 
this time no one will save you.” The actor began to pull down Legolas’s 
leggings.
	Orlando whimpered. “Please…”
	“Are you afraid of me, little one?” He unfastened his own britches.
	“Yes…” Orlando squirmed, his eyes full of well-rehearsed fear.
	“Release him, and I’ll let you live.” Viggo stood a little distance 
away, an arrow fitted to his bow-string. His voice was commanding and 
sure; the voice of a king.
	The man looked up. “Who are you?”
	“Let him up.” Viggo pulled the string back another fraction of an 
inch.
	The man whisked a knife out of its place at his hip. “No. You come 
here.”
	“Aragorn…” Orlando tried to warn.
	“So, that’s who this is.” He pressed the knife lightly against 
Orlando’s throat. “Aragorn the Ranger, Aragorn the fool. Come here or I 
will slit his throat.”
	“He means too much to you. You won’t kill him.”
	“Behind you! Aragorn-”
	But Richard, Michael and Craig had leapt on him, pulling him to 
the floor, binding his hands, stripping him of his weapons. They dragged 
him to the pallet and retied his hands, this time to one of the bedposts.
	The actor turned his attention to Viggo now. “Why are you 
interfering with my little whore?”
	“Legolas is not a whore, and he doesn’t belong to you.”
	“Really?” He glanced at Orlando. “Who’s your master, little 
whore?”
	Orlando drew a breath, looked to Viggo, and spat at the man.
	He wiped the spit off. Rage darkened his features, but he didn’t 
attack Orlando. Instead, he said to Viggo, “He depends on you. I saw him 
look at you. He needs you, doesn’t he?”
	Viggo glared, but remained silent.
	“Since he depends on you, all I must do to break him is to break 
you.” He called, “Come rip his clothes off.”
***
	Legolas jerked spasmodically and kicked out with both feet. His 
right foot connected with Tragel’s backside, where the older elf leaned 
over Aragorn, and his left foot hit Tragel square in the back. As the elf fell 
forward, Legolas began to struggle against the ropes binding his wrists. 
All of his fear was gone, now that Aragorn was in danger of being raped. 
Legolas knew well that elves were made too purely to enter any other race. 
A man could sleep with a female elf, since he was the one inside her, but a 
male elf could not enter a man or woman. The moment the elf entered 
him, the man’s body would react as if he’d been burned wherever the 
pennies or semen touched. And the hearts of most men could not endure 
such pain for long.
	The three orcs had approached, and Tragel shouted at two of them 
to hold Legolas, and for the other to help him with the Ranger’s clothes. 
Aragorn, too, was fighting, but he couldn’t understand the look of near-
insanity in Legolas’s eyes. Rape was awful, yes, but Legolas acted as 
though he, Aragorn, were about to be devoured alive by hungry trolls.
	The first orc to reach Legolas received a savage kick to its throat.
***
	Richard fell backwards, gasping, his face blackening as he fought 
for breath. Everyone except Orlando had temporarily frozen. Orlando 
pulled at the ropes that held him loosely to the bed, and when they gave 
way, he turned his attack on the actor who still bent over Viggo, though he 
was staring, open-mouthed, at the younger actor.
	“Orlando, wait-” Viggo began, seeing for a brief instant the 
murderous look in Orlando’s eyes. It was too late, though, as Orlando 
crashed into the other man, pushing him off Viggo and onto the floor. 
Orlando seemed to be groping at his side for something, and then he 
pulled out a knife. Viggo couldn’t be sure if it was a prop knife, with no 
sharp edges, or a real one. Viggo pulled loose from his ropes and dove on 
top of Orlando just as he managed to get the knife free of his clothes. He 
knocked the knife away, noting that it was a fake.
	He wrestled Orlando off of the other man, and received a sharp jab 
to his ribs for his trouble. “Orlando!” he rasped in the deranged man’s ear. 
“Orlando, stop!” He had always been stronger than Orlando, but the young 
man seemed to be filled with a desperate, manic strength that Viggo would 
normally have connected with a man fighting for his life. “Orlando!” he 
roared, trying to pin the struggling man’s arms down. He received a 
savage bite on his right hand. He refused to let go. He was glad Orlando 
was on his stomach, and thus in a weaker position.
	“I won’t let you rape Aragorn!” Orlando screamed.
	That brought Viggo up short. “Aragorn?” he muttered. “Orlando, 
listen to me. Orlando…”
      Orlando twisted like a snake and Viggo lost his hold for a moment. 
Orlando grabbed Viggo’s hair and pulled as hard as he could. A bit came 
out and Viggo wrestled Orlando’s hand back down.
	“Shit, Orlando, it’s me, Viggo.” Desperate as Orlando continued to 
scream, “Tragel, I’ll kill you, kill kill kill!”, Viggo shouted in his most 
commanding Aragorn-voice, “Legolas Greenleaf, stop it!”
	That brought Orlando up short, and he suddenly went limp. Viggo 
waited for a moment, to make sure he’d really stopped fighting, then he 
got off of him and knelt beside him. “Orlando?” he asked carefully.
	Others had crowded around them while they struggled. John 
dropped to his knees at once, but Peter stood a little back. Richard was just 
stepping into the circle. His face looked normal again, but his eyes were 
wide and his breath still came in short gasps.
	“Lad, can you hear me?” John asked, carefully touching Orlando’s 
arm.
	“Y-yes,” Orlando grunted, his voice barely audible. He rolled over; 
his face was flushed and he was sweating heavily. A look of confusion and 
shame was etched onto his face; his eyes were large with something not 
entirely readable.
	“What the hell is wrong with you?” Peter demanded. “What did 
you think you were doing?”
	John moved again to Orlando’s side. “Peter, Orlando and I need to 
talk. I think, for safety reasons, we should cancel this shoot.” He took 
Orlando under his arm and helped him up. Orlando was too confused to 
resist. Before Peter could utter a word, John had led the younger actor out 
of the room. The others stared after them.
	“He said ‘Aragorn,’” Richard muttered as he watched the two 
leave. “It sounded as if he confused fiction and reality.”

Chapter Eleven

	John longed to bang his head against a brick wall. ‘How could I 
have been so stupid? He was right here, under my very nose! Gandalf said 
he would learn Elvish quickly, and Orlando did, and I never imagined… 
And now he seems to be reliving memories. It’s time for me to help 
Legolas realize who he is.’ He steered Orlando out of the studio. ‘It’s 
finally time to tell him who he is.’
	John guided Orlando into a small room which was packed with 
comfortable, smooshy, plump couches, and he sat his young charge down 
on one of them. “Orlando,” he began, sitting down beside him, but 
Orlando cut him off.
	“I’m all right, now,” Orlando groaned, bowing his head. “I just 
don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He glanced up, and his eyes were 
wide with apprehension. John was one of only two people he would have 
dared confess this to. “I really thought he was raping Vi-Aragorn. I-I 
thought he was Tragel.”
	‘At least he’s being honest with me, and with himself. That’s a 
good start. Now, my only problem will be trying to convince him he’s not 
really crazy. Hopefully he doesn’t start to think I am.’ “What made you 
think that?”
	Orlando shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
	“Yes you do,” John answered, voicing a confidence he didn’t feel. 
“Say the first thing that comes into your head. Don’t stop to think about it, 
just speak.”
	For a long time, Orlando stared at a point beyond the room. 
Finally, he said, all in a rush, his voice full of fear, “Tragel was going to 
rape Ari. He was trying to rip off his clothes. If an elf rapes a man, the 
man will die- I couldn’t let him kill Aragorn. Ari didn’t understand; he 
doesn’t know what rape would do-” He fell silent, suddenly, and his eyes 
grew wide. “But, but that didn’t happen, did it?” he gasped. “We were 
shooting a scene from Aragorn’s Question, not-” He stopped again, and 
looked at John helplessly.
	John said gently, “It happened. It just happened ten thousand years 
ago, not today.”
	Orlando shook his head, and tried to joke, “You sound as crazy as I 
feel.” 
	“Orlando,” and John was aware that he might be pushing his friend 
towards a mental breakdown if the elf turned man didn’t believe him, “I 
must tell you something, and I want you to listen to it. Really listen to it. 
All right?”
	Orlando nodded slowly.
	“There are many strange things in this world. One of them is the 
existence of dwarves. Do you know what a dwarf is?”
	After a pause, he was answered with, “Yes. Some people are born 
with dwarfism. It’s a rare genetic thing, I think”
	“This ‘genetic thing’ is what is left of a rare and special race. Many 
of these people had dwarves as their ancestors. Real dwarves. The ones 
who dug for gold and jewels in mines. The ones J.R.R. Tolkien wrote 
about.”
	“No,” Orlando answered positively. “That’s nuts. Tolkien invented 
all of that.”
	“That’s what he wanted the world to think, so that a precious part 
of our history could be preserved.” John had gone, after the first book was 
released, to talk to Tolkien, and, through him, had discovered that Aragorn 
and Legolas had revealed everything and allowed him to write it up as a 
fictitious story and history. Through him, also, John learned how Aragorn 
and Legolas finally died. He had grieved, but the Valar had come to him in 
a dream to tell him that he would see the two again. Both deaths had been 
swift and without pain, for which John was grateful; Aragorn had died in 
an airplane crash and Legolas had been hit by a speeding car.
	“If it’s history, why doesn’t anyone else write about those times? 
Nowhere else have I ever heard about Middle Earth.”
	‘All right, you’re going to try reason, are you?’ “The history of 
Middle Earth passed into legend. Seven thousand eight hundred years after 
the fall of Gondor, people in England began to tell stories about a mythical 
King Arthur. It’s said that there’s no historical basis for him, but stories 
don’t come out of nowhere. Aragorn’s kingdom was remembered, if only 
enough to remember that he was a noble, farsighted king, and that the 
kingdom fell eventually. Tolkien once said that he was inventing a 
mystical past for England. What he was really doing was retelling it. And 
because no one remembers that time, he had to call it invented or people 
would put him in the nuthouse.”
	“But, Tolkien said there were writings in Gondor. Documents 
about the world, about Gondor’s people and customs. Wouldn’t at least 
some of those have survived? Or wouldn’t people, Aragorn’s ancestors for 
example, have kept him in their memories?”
	“Gondor burned to the ground. There wasn’t one stone left upon 
another when it finally fell. Aragorn’s summer castle survived, but it’s a 
ruin, now, of course.” ‘And Aragorn, Legolas and I cleared out all the 
remembrance of the men of Numenor rather than have it fall into the 
hands of our enemies.’ “You’ve lived in England for a long time; haven’t 
you ever been to Tintagel?”
	“That’s where King Arthur was supposed to have lived.”
	“King Elessar, not Arthur. And as to your second question, answer 
one for me first. How much can you tell me about your great-great 
grandparents?”
	Orlando blinked. “Nothing,” he admitted after a moment.
	“You don’t know their names? Or where they lived?’
	“No.” Orlando shook his head. “I know what you’re getting at, 
John, but that’s hardly the same thing. How could a king not be 
remembered?”
	“How much do you know about King Herod? You know, the one 
from the Bible, who lived a couple thousand years ago?” When Orlando 
didn’t answer, John continued. “You don’t’ know much. And why should 
you? What he did all that time ago doesn’t have any bearing on your life 
today, unless you’re a Christian. And even if you were, what would you 
care what his favorite breakfast food was or what he liked to wear on 
Tuesdays?”
	Orlando continued stubbornly, “Have you seen Tolkien’s maps? 
The continent shapes and positions are all wrong.”
	“Tectonic motion,” John answered. “A lot of time has passed since 
then.”
	“What about the Undying Lands? We know what’s on every inch 
of this earth, and they’ve never been reported.”
	“Not long after the fall of Gondor, men found their way to the 
Undying Lands and killed every last elf they found there.”
	“But if elves are supposed to be so powerful- well, what about 
Galadriel’s ring, Nenya?”
	“As she has said, the rings made by the elves were not made for 
war, but were designed to help heal and grow and grant knowledge.” 
	Orlando threw up his hands in exasperation. “You have an answer 
for everything!” he cried.
	“Not everything; I am not the Valar.”
	“Answer this, then,” challenged Orlando desperately. “You said 
those things happened to me a long time ago, right?”
	“Over ten thousand years ago, yes.”
	“How could that have happened to me if I’m only twenty-six?” 
Orlando demanded smugly.
	“You were reborn,” John responded carefully. “Fifty years ago, 
approximately, you and Aragorn were in an airplane crash, and Aragorn 
died. You, Legolas, were commanded to finish a task before you were 
allowed to join him in the Dead Lands. Then you died as well. But the 
Valar saw fit to give you a second chance at life.” He smiled wryly. 
Actually, Legolas and Aragorn had been brought back for a totally 
different, and far more serious purpose, but he wasn’t fool enough to try 
and explain that right now.
	“And how do you know all this?” Orlando demanded.
	‘Here’s the big question. If this doesn’t convince him I belong in 
the nuthosue, nothing will.’ “I was there, for all of this. I was there for the 
War of the Ring, and for the Fall of Gondor. I am Gimli, son of Gloin.”
	Orlando snorted, but there was a desperately snide sound to it. He 
was trying not to listen to John’s words. “You’re not a dwarf, John. 
You’re almost as tall as I am.”
	“I will become my proper height again when the time is right. 
When you start growing elf-ears, I’ll start shrinking.” John thought for a 
moment. “Please just answer one question for me, Orlando, and then I’ll 
let you go. Do you love Viggo?”
	Orlando blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?’
	“How long have you loved him? Don’t think; answer. How long?”
	“Since I met him.” Orlando froze. He’d never admitted that to 
anyone. Not even to himself, really. He’d joked to himself about the idea 
of love at first sight, but in Viggo’s case, it had been true. “Since I first 
saw him,” he whispered in surprise.
	“That’s because he’s Aragorn, and you’ve loved each other for 
millennia, and not even death could separate you for long.” John stood. 
“Don’t take my word for it, Orlando; wait and see.” He left the room, 
proud of himself, and not even Orlando’s call of, “I didn’t say I believe 
you!” could dampen his spirits. He was pleased to note that the look of 
defiance had left Orlando’s face and was replaced by a need to know.
	He decided to go see Gandalf and demand why the wizard hadn’t 
told him that Orlando was Legolas, though he had to concede that Gandalf 
had probably been dropping hints for months, or maybe even for years. 
‘Maybe I’ll go bang my head against a wall instead,’ he decided.

Chapter Twelve

	“I still can’t believe you carry it everywhere,” Elijah said, turning 
around in the passenger seat and pointing to the sword on the back seat of 
Viggo’s car.
	“It connects me to Aragorn,” Viggo answered without glancing at 
him. He buckled his seatbelt and rummaged for his keys.
	“Like you need that connection after four years of this.” Elijah 
shook his head. “Face it, Viggo, you love that thing. It’s your baby. You 
can barely let it out of your sight.” He grinned, and teased, “Just like you 
can’t look away from Orlando.”
	Viggo’s head snapped sideways, then he focused forward again, 
but Elijah had seen the slight blush that crossed his friend’s features. “And 
what do you know about my thoughts regarding Orlando, little hobbit?” 
Viggo asked coolly.
	“Only what you tell me,” Elijah tormented.
	“I’ve told you nothing.”
	“You practically fell into his eyes this morning before the shoot.” 
He was pleased to see Viggo’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. They 
hadn’t even pulled out of Viggo’s driveway. “You might want to at least 
turn the car on.”
	But Viggo’s hands remained tight on the wheel. “He was like a 
wild animal this morning,” he whispered, and Elijah stopped smiling. He 
hadn’t been on set during the shoot, but one of the ‘orcs’ had told him.
	“What did John say to him?” he asked carefully.
	“I don’t know. Orlando went to Peter and confessed exhaustion 
and bad news from home had gotten to him. I don’t know if Peter really 
believes him, but he’s agreed to try shooting again tomorrow. He has no 
choice. These episodes have to get done.” He looked out his window. 
“Orli won’t even talk to me about it. He’s more shaken than I’ve ever seen 
him.”
	“Did he really call you Aragorn?”
	“Sort of. He thought I was an enemy when I was trying to hold him 
down, but he was trying to protect Aragorn from rape, he said.”
	“Wasn’t that the scene you were working on? Where Aragorn is 
raped by Tragel and needs Legolas to comfort him afterwards?”
	Viggo nodded. “I know what you’re thinking; Richard suggested 
it, too. But I don’t think Orlando would confuse fiction and reality like 
that. I’m not sure what I mean, so I can’t explain it, but I know Orlando 
has more sense and control than that.”
	“What do you think is bothering him, then?”
	“I don’t know.” Viggo swallowed. A brief image flashed behind 
his eyes: Legolas (I mean Orlando) bending over him, his soft, blond 
(brown!) hair falling in front of his face in a shimmering curtain, (it’s too 
short to fall!) kissing him…
	“Viggo… Viggo, are you all right?”
	“Okay, so you’re right about my feelings for Orlando,” he 
answered, hoping to distract himself. ‘I’m having fantasies about Orlando 
in his Legolas costume, not about Legolas. Legolas is just a character from 
a book I hadn’t read until four years ago.’
	Elijah grinned. “I know I’m right. Now, are we going out for 
groceries or not?”

Chapter Thirteen

	Peter opened his door, unsurprised that someone was calling on 
him at eleven o’clock at night. ‘It’s probably one of the make-up artists 
asking about the Entlings’ exact look.’ He blinked and stared at his visitor. 
“Orlando?”
	Orlando nodded slightly. “Hi, Peter,” he sounded sheepish. “Um, I 
wanted to ask you a few question about the script for Aragorn’s 
Question.”
	‘Well, at least this sounds more like Orlando than that raving 
lunatic.’ “Come in.”
	Once they were seated, Orlando didn’t waste time. “Peter, the rape 
scene needs to be changed.”
	‘I thought you were going to ask questions, not give orders.’ 
“Why?” he asked calmly.
	“Because Aragorn wouldn’t live through the rape.” Orlando 
clenched his hands nervously in his lap. He’d become convinced during 
the last few hours of this fact, though he couldn’t find anything in 
Tolkien’s writings to back it up. ‘And I will not rely on those fairy tales 
John told me.’ Luckily, what he hoped were facts accompanied his 
thoughts, so he continued, “Elves are too pure to rape humans, or any 
other race. If Tragel raped Aragorn- if he finished, I mean- Aragorn would 
die. It’s like being touched with fire,” he rushed on, seeing that Peter was 
going to interject something, and the director subsided. “There’s no 
problem keeping the rape in there, but Tragel can’t finish. In fact, that 
could be another reason Aragorn’s so afraid- the pain was worse than 
anything else he’s ever felt. And Legolas could explain it to him, and to 
the audience.” Orlando had been careful to say ‘Legolas could explain’ 
instead of ‘I could explain,’ though that’s what had flashed through his 
mind. ‘I don’t believe John, not yet. And even if I did, I’m not fool enough 
to tell Peter about it. I might be fired, or sent to a psychiatrist.’
	Peter considered Orlando’s words. He remembered how, during 
the Council of Elrond scene, Orlando had suggested that Legolas would 
try to restrain his fellow elves instead of joining the fight. He decided to 
give Orlando’s suggestion a chance. “How do you know Elves are too 
pure? What about Aragorn and Arwen being together? Or what about 
Luthien and Beren?”
	“The man is only affected if the elf is inside him, not the other way 
around. Tolkien didn’t write about that in Lord of the Rings, since 
homosexuality is never mentioned, and very few women take prominent 
roles in the story. But in one of his transcripts, I came across that little 
tidbit. Wouldn’t it make things more interesting?” he added, smiling.
	Peter nodded. ‘Ratings would certainly go up if there was a danger 
Aragorn might die.’ “Tell me all the details about how this works. How 
long would Aragorn be at risk, only while Tragel’s raping him, or 
afterwards?”
	“Well, it’s like being tortured. As long as Aragorn’s heart is racing 
out of control, he’s in danger.” Orlando settled back, prepared to tell Peter 
all he knew- and he was amazed that, the more he talked, the more sure he 
grew of all the facts in his head.
	‘But I do not believe John,’ he repeated firmly.

Chapter Fourteen

	Legolas watched the orcs run in fear, leaving Tragel’s corpse, and 
he dropped to his knees beside Aragorn, who was curled into a tight ball, 
shuddering and sobbing. A breeze passed over them, raising gooseflesh all 
over the man’s naked body. Legolas realized he was still clutching his 
knives and he laid them to one side, within easy reach, just in case their 
enemies returned. He rubbed his blood-stained hands on his leggings, and 
then he reached out and laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. The king of 
Gondor flinched, and Legolas removed his hand quickly.
	“*Aragorn, it’s me, Legolas. They’re gone- it’s all right.*” Legolas 
didn’t really expect this to get a response; he still remembered being a 
child and having Tragel invade him. ‘I’m not even human; in some ways, 
this is worse than what happened to me.’
	Aragorn twitched in front of him. “Legolas?” he croaked. “*Please, 
the pain… Legolas, help me.*”
	Legolas touched him again, gently, and Aragorn flinched again. 
“*I need to touch you to heal you,*” the elf explained, his voice soft, 
soothing.
	Aragorn nodded.
	“*Shh. It’s all right. I’m just going to take the pain away. Lie 
still.*” Legolas put the tips of his fingers on Aragorn’s arm. The man 
tensed for a moment, then relaxed with a shivering sigh. He uncurled 
slightly.
	‘Now comes the hard part.’ “*Estel, I need to touch you where 
you’ve been burned. Will you let me?*”
	Aragorn moaned. “*No…*” He pulled himself into his tight ball 
again.
	The elf drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. “*I 
understand, Estel. Will you let me wrap you in my cloak? It’s cold out 
here.*”
	“*My clothes…*”
	Legolas glanced at the rags that had once been Aragorn’s tunic, 
pants and cloak. “*Tragel shredded them. Will you take my cloak?*”
	For the first time, Aragorn looked up and met his eyes. Legolas 
was grieved to see the terror in the grey eyes that had seen so much, 
fought through so many battles. “*All right. Th-thank you.*” He took the 
cloak and huddled into it. Legolas felt his heart clench as two tears leaked 
out from under Aragorn’s squeezed-shut lids.
	Quietly, Legolas began to sing. He chose a song he’d been taught 
as a child, a song of nonsense syllables to a soothing, repetitive melody. It 
was the song his father had sung to him, the one he’d sung to Estel when 
he had first come to Rivendelll, afraid of every shadow, and for many 
years after. Gradually, Aragorn began to relax again.
	The elf put words to the tune. “Hear the rain, see the sun, know the 
Valar is watching out for frightened ones. They sent me to guard your 
sleep, they sent me to guide your steps. Let me hold you, hide you, mend 
you. Trust me now, my little one.” He’d invented these words years ago, 
almost in another world, it seemed. Aragorn relaxed further, and uncurled.
	“*Legolas, why did it hurt so much?*” His voice was stronger, but 
it still held that note of underlying terror that made Legolas’s chest tighten 
in sympathy.
	“*Elves are too pure to be inside men,*” Legolas explained. 
“*Estel, he was burning you.*”
	Aragorn digested that. “*It still burns, even though he’s not inside 
me anymore. I… I should let you heal me.*” He didn’t move immediately, 
but when he did, his movements were decided and sure. He lay out fully 
on his back and stared up at his trusted friend. The fear had not left his 
gaze, but there was determination there now.
	Legolas smiled kindly. “*I’ll make this as brief as possible.*” He 
reached under the cloak, and felt Aragorn’s leg muscles tighten, but the 
man didn’t whimper. ‘You are regaining your courage,’ Legolas thought, 
and that heartened him. With his other hand, he touched Aragorn’s 
shoulder, squeezing it gently. He kept his eyes on Aragorn’s face as his 
hand found its own way between his legs. “Shh,” he soothed. “*I won’t 
hurt you.*”
	Under his sensitive fingers, he felt the place where Tragel had 
forced his way in. Charred, blistered flesh felt dry and angry under his 
hand, and Aragorn sucked air between his teeth. Legolas knew if he 
looked under the cloak that the skin around Aragorn’s hole would be red 
and bubbled up. He didn’t look, but continued to focus on Aragorn’s 
drawn, strained face. “*I’ll be done soon. You’re doing well.*” ‘Now 
comes the next step.’ “*Estel, I need to put my fingers up inside you. I 
can’t get to the worst of the damage without doing that.*” His hand stilled, 
and he waited for Aragorn’s answer.
	Aragorn tensed, and his hands balled into fists. Panic flitted across 
his face. He didn’t want the pain to get worse, and he didn’t want Legolas 
touching him. ‘He’s already touched me,’ one part of his mind reasoned. 
‘He won’t hurt me.’
	‘What if he wants to rape you?’ another part of his mind countered 
shrilly.
	‘This is Legolas we’re talking about here! Legolas, my friend, my 
brother in all but blood, would never hurt me.’
	‘He might not rape you, but I’ll bet he’s enjoying touching you.’
	‘Be reasonable!’ his first voice argued, sounding slightly panicked. 
‘Legolas has never shown any interest in me except as a friend.’
	‘Besides,’ added a third voice viciously, ‘why would someone so 
beautiful want such a filthy thing like you? That’s why Arwen really left, 
and you know it. She didn’t miss her people; she wanted to be away from 
you.'
	Aragorn blinked, forcing himself to focus on Legolas. He took a 
deep breath and forced the voices in his head to be silent. “*Go ahead. I’ll 
hold still.*”
	Legolas said gently, “*Can you roll onto your stomach so I can see 
a little better? I don’t want to do something so delicate just by touch.*”
	‘There! He does want to rape you!’
	‘How can he stand to look at something so disgusting?’
	‘He’s just trying to help me, so shut up!’
	Aragorn rolled over and parted his legs slightly. He pillowed his 
chin on his arms, and stared straight ahead. His body was rigid with pain 
and fear.
	Legolas’s hand came up to rest on Aragon’s shoulder, and, after a 
moment, his other hand lifted the cloak. Aragorn resisted the urge to jump 
up and try to run away. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 
Legolas touched his upper thigh. Aragorn’s heart raced, and his throat 
constricted.
	“*Estel, do you remember when you were six and you got that 
splinter in your hand? It was probably one of the biggest splinters I’d ever 
seen, and I didn’t blame you for being scared.*” Legolas’s hand moved up 
slightly. The hand on Aragorn’s shoulder tightened reassuringly. “*Lord 
Elrond was used to seeing his sons get hurt, but it was different with you, 
because you were so little.*” His fingers touched the outside of Aragorn’s 
hole, and the king’s breathing grew ragged. Legolas kept his voice steady. 
“*And worse than that, you didn’t want him to take it out. You said you 
could stop using your left hand, rather than have Elrond take it out.*” One 
slim finger entered, and Aragorn stifled a moan of shock. Legolas soothed, 
“*It’ll be over in a minute, and it won’t hurt anymore. I promise… Do you 
remember how the splinter finally came out?*”
	Aragorn’s eyes were watering slightly from the pain, but he forced 
himself to answer, “*I let you do it.*”
	“*We made a deal.*” He eased his finger further in. “*I promised 
you could ride my horse if you would let me take it out. So I put your hand 
under water to soften up the splinter, and I pulled it out quickly. You 
recovered swiftly, after it was gone, and then I had to let you ride my 
horse, even though Elrond threatened to ring my neck if you got even one 
scratch.*” He pulled his finger out as the flesh under his touch became soft 
again. “*It’s all right, Estel,*” he whispered, replacing the cloak. “*You’re 
healed.*”
***
	The ground under him felt amazingly soft, and the man curled into 
the cloak that covered him. He refused to open his eyes. Despite the 
disturbing feeling of having Legolas touch him, he felt safe now. He rolled 
over, snuggling into the comfortable warmth- and hit his head against 
something hard. He groaned and dragged a hand out of the cloak to rub his 
head.
	‘Is it a tree?’ he wondered. He opened his eyes, and received a 
shock. He wasn’t lying outside on grass, but on a bed. And the thing 
covering him wasn’t a cloak, but a blanket. Viggo glanced at the offending 
headboard and then closed his eyes again. “Uuuuhmmm,” he uttered. 
‘What sort of dream-?’
	He remembered, in a rush, the shoot from yesterday, and muttered, 
“That came from the script, from the things we’ll be filming today.” He 
chuckled dryly. “I’m going to be acting like Orlando soon.” That 
statement, though, put him in mind of the younger actor, and worry 
assailed him again. What exactly was wrong with Orlando? And why 
wouldn’t Orlando let him help? ‘How could I help? I don’t understand 
what happened; at least maybe he knew what was going on inside his head 
at the time. Besides, he doesn’t need me. He was perfectly happy to have 
John lead him off the set.’ Not for the first time, Viggo felt a flicker of 
jealousy that John was so close with Orlando. The usually-happy young 
man was hard to talk to when he was troubled by something. He seemed to 
shut down, and only John knew how to get him to talk.
	Rolling over, making sure to avoid the headboard this time, Viggo 
looked at his clock. 4:37 blazed at him in red-on-black. He grumbled, but 
got up. All sleepiness had left him, and suddenly he couldn’t get out of 
bed fast enough. He put some clothes on and left his small trailer quickly.
	Outside, the lights from several lampposts hummed and flooded 
the world with too much definition. Viggo headed away from the center of 
the tiny village the trailers made, towards the surrounded, darkened 
country, deciding he would look at the stars for a while. He found 
someone else there ahead of him.
	The figure was wrapped in a blanket and staring up at the stars as 
though they were his entire world. Viggo hesitated, not wanting to talk or 
disturb the star-gazer, but the person turned abruptly; apparently, he’d 
heard Viggo coming, though Viggo himself hadn’t thought he’d made any 
noise.
	The starlight reflected in two brown eyes. Viggo blinked in 
surprise; he could just see the features of the man in the lights from the 
trailers. “Hi, Orlando.”
	“Hi.” Orlando smiled, and Viggo took this as an invitation. He 
stepped closer. The two of them turned their eyes to the sky.
	“I love the stars,” Viggo said a minute or so later. “No matter 
where I am, I can look up at them, and I feel right at home, so I’m never 
homesick.”
	Orlando moved closer to him. “Viggo, was everyone angry with 
me? When I ruined the shoot?”
	‘He sounds so vulnerable.’ “No, they weren’t mad. Richard said it 
meant he could get out of his orc-makeup two hours early.”
	“Can he talk all right?”
	“Yes. You didn’t hurt him badly. And he knows you didn’t mean 
it.” Viggo felt an urge to put his arm around Orlando’s shoulders. He 
debated for a moment, but Orlando solved his dilemma by snuggling up 
against him, so that the only logical thing to do was for Viggo to draw him 
closer.
	“I talked to Peter. He seems to have forgiven me.” Orlando 
glanced up at Viggo, and his attention was caught by the gentle, grey, 
slightly worried eyes gazing at him. “And I’m fine now,” he added, not 
fully realizing that he was still speaking, or that an involuntary smile was 
pulling at the corners of his lips.
	Viggo’s other hand came up and touched Orlando’s shoulder. “I 
was worried,” he explained, unnecessarily.
	Warmth moved down Orlando’s arm from the point where Viggo’s 
hand touched him. Orlando licked his lips nervously. “Viggo….”
	Viggo’s hand moved from his shoulder, and touched him under his 
chin, lifting his head slightly. “May I?” he whispered when their lips were 
less than half an inch apart.
	Orlando nodded, and parted his lips slightly, expectantly. Viggo 
kissed him gently, but the warmth of him, so close, made Orlando push 
closer, and his tongue came quickly, earnestly into Viggo’s mouth. The 
older man didn’t pull away, but delighted in the taste of Orlando, and 
opened his own mouth a little more so he could draw the searching tongue 
in.
***
	“*I’m sorry I’m so jumpy,*” Aragorn apologized as he and 
Legolas made their way back towards Gondor. They had located their 
horses, which had bolted when Tragel attacked, and Aragorn had changed 
into a spare set of clothes, returning Legolas’s cloak reluctantly. He didn’t 
want to admit it, but he liked how the elf always smelled of flowers. It was 
a comforting, warming, strengthening smell. All elves smelled faintly of 
flowers, and many men said they all smelled alike, but Aragorn knew 
differently. His father, Elrond, had smelled of cherry blossoms, and 
Elladan, the older twin of Elrond, had smelled of hyacinths. Legolas 
radiated a fragrance of late summer mornings, when the dew was rising 
from cedars and fading roses. His scent was somehow sadder than that of 
most elves, as if part of him was already in the Undying Lands, or as if 
he’d seen too much pain to be completely free. That couldn’t be right, 
though, since both Elrond and Elladan had seen bloodier battles than he. 
Maybe it was just that Legolas’s battles had been so recently. Maybe it 
was that, being younger than they, he didn’t know quite how to handle the 
things that assailed him.
	“*It’s perfectly understandable,*” Legolas replied. “*Tragel is… 
was… a nightmare I tried very hard to forget.*” He checked his horse 
suddenly, and turned to face Aragorn. “*Estel… I’m sorry he hurt you. I 
never wanted you to be subjected to that.*”
	Aragorn smiled, warmed by the caring in Legolas’s quiet tenor. 
“*I’ll mend. Thank you for… healing me, and putting up with my fears.*” 
He’d nearly said ‘Thank you for touching me.’
	Legolas opened his mouth, but then shut it again. A look Aragorn 
could not read crossed his face. “*We should keep going. It will be sunset 
soon.*”
	Three hours later, they stopped to make camp. The north wind 
howled savagely, and Legolas watched Aragorn shiver as he worked to 
light a fire. But rain had fallen all day, and the little bit of dry wood he 
could find would never keep them warm. Usually, since Aragorn had 
spent over sixty years in the wilderness, it took a lot to make him cold, but 
he’d been injured, and despite Legolas’s healing hands, his body still 
needed time and rest to repair itself.
	“*It’s not going to be enough,*” he said. “*The fire, I mean. I have 
a way for us to keep warm.*” He opened up his cloak slightly as Aragorn 
looked at him. “*We can stay close for warmth.*”
	Aragorn hesitated. ‘I could be near him; I could be wrapped in his 
flowers all night… Shit.’ Aragorn bowed his head. ‘I… need… to be near 
him.’ “*Legolas, maybe we shouldn’t. I mean…*”
	“*Estel, I mean nothing by it. I promise I won’t hurt you,*” 
Legolas answered earnestly.
	‘He must think I’m afraid of him because of Tragel. Well, that’s 
better than if he guesses the truth.’ “*Please, Legolas, I’m scared.*” He 
tried to put a little quaver in his voice. “*Please don’t ask me to do that.*”
	Legolas took a step closer, holding his hands up, palms forward, in 
a gesture of peace. “*You’ll freeze without a bigger fire, which we can’t 
build, but we can keep each other warm. Stay wrapped in your own cloak, 
and I’ll stay in mine. We just need to be close enough to protect each 
other.*”
	The king backed up a step. “You’re an elf; you don’t get cold,” he 
answered, breaking into the Common Speech. He’d spoken much more 
harshly than he’d intended, and he saw the surprise on Legolas’s face, but 
he refused to back down. “Why do you want to be so close to me?”
	“Why are you being so stubborn?” Legolas put his hands on his 
hips. “I’m just trying to make sure Gondor still has a king in the morning.” 
Legolas shook his head. “*Foolish man,*” he grumbled.
	‘This isn’t going the way I wanted it to, not at all. Now he’s angry 
with me.’ Aragorn wasn’t quick enough to stop himself from retorting, 
“*Look, I have a right to be afraid if I choose! I don’t want to sleep next 
you. Is that all right, Prince?*” His voice was sneering, and he hated 
himself for it, but he’d seen the way Legolas’s eyes lit up when he was 
annoyed, and it was very alluring. He had to keep away from Legolas’s 
flower-scent at all costs.
	“*No, King, it’s not. You’ll die without my warmth.*” He took a 
step closer, and Aragorn hastily took two backwards. “Aragorn-”
	A snarl cut him off, and a hairy, enormous creature was bearing 
him to the ground, its fangs searching for his throat. Legolas put up his 
arm to shield that vulnerable spot while he groped for his knife.
	‘We didn’t hear them. Why didn’t the horses raise an alarm?’ 
Aragorn reacted with the well-honed instincts of a Ranger, but another 
warg barred his way to Legolas. Anduril flashed forth. Growling almost as 
loud as the four-footed terror he faced, Aragorn lunged, Anduril slicing off 
a forepaw as the warg leapt. But the hairy demon bore Aragorn down 
under its weight. If a warg could laugh, this one was doing so. Its jaws 
were open in a hungry grin.
	His sword useless in such close quarters, Aragorn dropped it and 
grabbed the warg’s jaws with the hooked fingers of his right hand, keeping 
the beast from tearing at his face, while he searched for, found, and pulled 
a dagger from where it rested at his side. He stabbed the creature between 
its shoulder blades. The hide there was tough, and Aragorn felt the point 
skid around, doing more to anger the creature than to hurt it, before it 
finally sank down close to the base of the warg’s skull. The monster 
writhed, stopping its attempt to free its mouth and trying to whirl around 
to rip out the offending blade. Aragorn withdrew the dagger and stabbed 
deep into the warg’s throat. It thrashed, but at last lay still.
	Gasping, sweating, bleeding, dragging his knife free and scooping 
up his sword, Aragorn charged towards where Legolas was still fighting 
the warg atop him. With some part of his mind that wasn’t concentrating 
on the struggling pair in front of him, he heard the terrified screams of 
horses.
	‘Only two,’ Aragorn thought distractedly as he ran Anduril into the 
second warg’s side. ‘There were only two. Wargs travel in packs; where 
are the rest of them?’
	A howl answered him as the second warg fell, lifeless, and Legolas 
was struggling to sit up. His left arm was torn, and blood trickled from his 
fingertips.
	Aragorn considered their options as he helped Legolas regain his 
feet. “We’ll never outrun them,” he gasped.
	Legolas drew one of his knives with his still-good hand. “We could 
run through the trees.”
	“Agreed.” Backing up, continually searching the darkness for 
glinting eyes, they reached the closest tree. Aragorn waited until Legolas 
had sheathed his knife and hoisted himself up before he, too, sheathed his 
weapons, grabbed a branch and swung himself up. Below him, a warg 
dashed out of the night and bit on the air just beneath his toes. He 
hurriedly climbed higher as the beast leapt as high as it could reach. He 
felt a hand grab him and pull him into space, lifting him quicker than he 
could have gotten up. The warg barked in frustration.
	Legolas was panting and straining. Aragorn caught the branch 
Legolas was crouched on and managed to drag himself onto it. He 
ignored, through practice, the miracle that Legolas could balance on a 
branch, without holding on, and pull him up. “Let’s move,” he said to 
Legolas. “Where the warg howls, there the orc prowls.”
	Legolas laughed a short, pained laugh. “You talk too much.” They 
made their way to the next tree, and the one after that. They had no more 
thought for the horses; they were almost certainly dead by now. As they 
traveled, Aragorn pulled aethelas from one of his pockets and chewed it to 
get the juices started, then spit the mess out in his hand and rubbed it 
gently but firmly into Legolas’s injury. Legolas scowled at the sticky, 
green mass and released a low moan when Aragorn applied it to his arm, 
but he kept going. By the time they were a mile away from the scene of 
the attack, he had stopped bleeding, and the aethelas was speeding his 
elven healing powers.
	They traveled, not as swiftly as Legolas could have alone, being an 
elf, at most at home in the trees, but they made good progress. Such a 
physical task gave Aragorn time to think, and he allowed reaction from the 
frenzied battle to occupy part of his mind.
	‘We could have died. Again. How many life-threatening fights 
have we been in in the last month? Ten? Fifty?’ He mulled that over for a 
while, then another, much more disturbing thought, took control of him.
	‘What if I had lived, and Legolas had died? How could I live 
without him?’ His stomach shrank at the thought, and he felt nauseated. 
Suddenly, his fear of Legolas knowing his true feelings seemed very 
foolish. ‘What if he died, and I never knew if he loved me?
	‘He saved me. He healed me, without being disgusted by my fear 
or embarrassed at having to touch me. Surely he won’t be repulsed if I just 
ask him…’
	‘Of course he’ll be repulsed,’ the vicious part of his mind 
interjected. ‘He just knows how to hide it well. You’re scum, remember? 
You’re dirt compared to someone of his beauty and intelligence.’
	‘Still,’ Aragorn vowed, ‘I will ask him. I must know.’
	As the sun rose, they stopped to rest. Legolas took lembas from his 
pack, which he’d miraculously still been wearing when they were 
attacked, and handed some to Aragorn. “We should sleep. Nothing will 
disturb us up here.”
	The man didn’t answer, or take the lembas. He was still thinking.
	“Aragorn?” Legolas reached out and touched his shoulder.
	The man recoiled as if he’d been struck.
	A look of frustration crossed the elf’s face. “*Estel, it’s me, 
Legolas. I’m not going to hurt you.*”
	Aragorn saw that look, and bowed his head in shame. “*I’m sorry, 
Legolas; I’m sorry I’m so...*”
	Gentle understanding replaced the look of frustration instantly. 
“*I’m angry with myself, not you, Estel.*” Legolas moved closer. “*Are 
you all right?*” He frowned at the dried blood on the side of Aragorn’s 
face. “*You’re hurt.*” He reached up and touched the spot.
      Aragorn felt warmth trickle down his face. “*It’s not my blood,*” 
he answered, slightly breathless, and he wondered if Legolas could see the 
blush that he could feel burning his skin. “*It’s from the first warg I 
fought. The only injuries I have are where the thing managed to scratch 
my shoulder and my hand. And I’ve already seen to those.*”
	But Legolas was already probing with his sensitive fingers at 
Aragorn’s shoulder. He slipped his fingers under Aragorn’s collar and 
found the wound. The man gasped softly. Closing his eyes, Legolas 
released power from himself into the slash. Aragorn sighed in 
contentment. He could say almost anything now, while the touch of 
Legolas worked its magic. “*Legolas… I need to tell you something…*” 
A word flashed across his mind. ‘Vaad.’
***
	Viggo whispered, “Vaad.”
	Orlando touched his hand. They were still standing under the stars, 
which were paling as the morning approached. “What was that?”
	Viggo repeated, “Vaad. It means ‘lover’ in Elvish.”
	Orlando smiled. “*I love you, too, Viggo.*”
	Viggo gazed at the younger man. “I understood you,” he whispered 
in surprise, “*without the script.*”
	Orlando’s smile broadened; he was too content to wonder.

Chapter Fifteen

	Ian McKellen tapped on John’s door early Friday morning. The 
sun had only been up for an hour or so, but he didn’t care if he woke his 
long-time friend. He ignored the beautiful colors of the sky, something he 
took pleasure in whenever possible, and rapped still louder. Danger was 
growing in his mind, as it had when he learned the origin of the small, 
golden ring Bilbo had given to Frodo.  He glanced towards the east, 
grateful to see the sun smiling, but being able to see the sun didn’t mean 
there wasn’t trouble coming; it just meant the danger wasn’t close enough 
to affect the earth at large. Yet. Something Aragorn had once said, which 
had been recounted by Tolkien millennia later, crossed his mind. “Yet 
dawn is ever the hope of Men.” 
      He remembered, too, what the enemy had said, “What of the 
dawn? We are the fighting Uruk-hai! Bring out your skulking king!”
      ‘Who is our king now?’
      He hammered on the door, wishing he had his staff, which had 
made such an effective knocker.
      At last, John dragged the door open and stared at him blearily. 
“Whatzzit?” he grumbled.
      Ian pushed past him into the trailer. “Trouble is coming,” he said 
curtly. “Are you ready?”
      That statement cleared John’s head completely. “Yes. The others, 
though-”
      “Viggo and Orlando are in love,” Ian responded, waving the 
concern away. “That will have to be enough for now.”
      “What about Elijah and Sean and-”
      Ian smiled slightly. “Elijah has been ready for nearly a year, and it 
didn’t take very long to convince the other hobbits, except Sean of 
course.” He wished for the millionth time that he had a pipe to puff. 
Glancing around, he reflected that this trailer didn’t seem a very likely 
place from which to launch an assault. But they had chosen this place, 
because John had certain original documents and something none of the 
rest of them had: he had lived through every age of the world starting from 
the later part of the Third Age, with no blanks in his knowledge. The only 
other ‘people,’ if they could be called people, to do that were the Valar.
      Since he didn’t have a pipe, he settled on pacing instead. ‘We are 
striking from a position of half-strength. This is different from when I sent 
Frodo on his mission; we need to be able to fight openly, and there is very 
little to be gained in secrecy, except that the longer we wait to reveal 
ourselves, the more memories may be repaired. Still, that little is an 
advantage, and so we will keep it as long as possible.’
      “When will the battle begin?”
      “Within a fortnight,” Ian answered, glancing at his friend. “I must 
go speak with Christopher and Hugo. I only wanted to know if you were 
ready. Speak to Elijah if you get the chance. And to Peter.” He turned, 
imagining the swish of a cloak emphasizing his movements, and strode 
from the trailer.
      John stared after him, but shook his head. ‘Gandalf is like that,’ he 
reminded himself. ‘Close, and keeps his own counsel. I must remember 
that personalities may have changed dramatically, or not at all.’

Chapter Sixteen

	One trailer was different from the others. It resembled a house on 
the inside much more effectively than they. This trailer had almost the 
look of a miniature palace. And on five chairs that looked very like 
thrones, ancient beings sat, oblivious to their surroundings, concerned with 
the comings and goings of the world.
	Hugo looked at his ‘sons’. “*The Valar have not seen fit to return 
Aragorn’s Rangers to him, and so he will need your help more than 
ever.”” He turned his eyes to Richard. “*Glorfindel, I must again impress 
upon you how crucial you are to us. While the Enemy knows Aragorn and 
Legolas have returned, she knows nothing of the dreams you are feeding 
them, reminding them of who they are. She thinks they are fragile humans 
who will never regain their true forms.*”
	Glorfindel bowed his head in acknowledgement. “*So far, they 
have received their dreams, though Legolas is afraid of his so far, and 
Aragorn only responds to his on a subconscious level.*”
	Michael raised his hand slightly, and the others glanced at him. 
“*How long can we hide Glorfindel’s interference form the Valar?*”
	“*That cannot be known,*” his ‘father’ answered his minutes-older 
son.
	“*When will the others begin to remember?*” Craig put in.
	“*They have already begun, just as you did, but without Aragorn 
and Legolas, we are lost, and they are having the most trouble 
remembering their past.*”
	“*Please forgive me, Father, but why are Legolas and Aragorn so 
crucial to our success? There is no Gondor for Aragorn to rule, and no 
Mirkwood elves for Legolas to lead. Almost the only elves left in the 
world are sitting here in this room, and the race of Men has fallen by the 
wayside, taking the world with it.*”
	“*Aragorn’s courage will always be needed, and his Flame of the 
West will blaze again.*” Kate spoke for the first time in that ancient, airy 
voice only she could command. She gazed at Craig, and remembered the 
day her grandsons were born. Just like then, even though so many ages of 
the world had passed, they sometimes still seemed innocent. That was by 
elf-standards, though, as the sons of Elrond made most men look like 
children. “*And Legolas’s strength, quickness and bravery are unmatched. 
The question is not why we need them, but how we can use our alliance 
and second lives to the advantage of all.*”
	There was a knock on the door to the trailer, and they all turned 
towards it. Craig stood and moved to let the person enter. Christopher 
stood, his eyes flashing in the morning light. “Hmmm, hoom, Greetings, 
young elf. Where is Lord Elrond? I must speak with him.”
	The elf, feeling like an elfling as he always did in this ‘man’s’ 
presence, bowed and stepped aside. “Please come and sit, Master 
Treebeard.” As the white-bearded ‘man’ with the resonant, deep, slightly 
frightening voice passed, the elf took a moment to allow himself an 
indulgent glance at his retreating back. ‘It’s hard to believe Christopher 
Lee, of all people, managed to be the reborn Treebeard.’ He remembered, 
nearly a year ago, when his father and Gandalf had been concerned that 
Christopher was truly Saruman reborn, and not just an actor playing that 
deceitful, dangerous wizard.
	“*Elrohir, come sit down,*” called Glorfindel, managing 
simultaneously to sound reproachful and amused.
	Elrohir blushed slightly as he walked briskly to his seat and 
attended to the conversation between Elrond and Treebeard.
	First Treebeard bowed to the rest of the assembly, then took 
Galadriel’s hand in his and kissed it. Finally, he sat down and focused on 
Lord Elrond. “*My trees feel the change, even though there are no Ents 
left.*”
      Elrond Half-Even nodded. “*The world has been poisoned, but 
that is not the worst of it, nor has it been for generations. Neither are the 
wars of men our chief concern, as only a miracle could settle their 
differences. It is the war that our Enemy is waging against the Earth that 
we must be concerned with. She has men, machines, even some parts of 
Nature carrying out her orders.*” He sighed. “*And there is no simple way 
to destroy her.*”
      “*If there was,*” Glorfindel put in, “*we would have already 
attempted it.*”
      “*Indeed,*” Elrond agreed, giving his old friend a slight smile as 
he wondered again how and when Glorfindel had started speaking more 
often. Surely he hadn’t been that talkative during the War of the Ring, or 
for countless centuries before that. 
      “*Soon,*” Elrond continued. “*we must call a council and put 
forth our theories, suggestions and hopes. Perhaps those who have lived 
the longest may know this world better than we do.*” If he had been less 
restrained, he would have smiled sardonically at himself; he, the Lord of 
Imladris, found it endlessly amusing that he hated using anything more 
complicated than a toaster because they had a habit of either exploding, 
catching fire or simply falling forever silent. “*And we cannot wait more 
than another day or two before calling everyone together.*” He glanced at 
Glorfindel, who had the most contact with all of the cast members of Lord 
of the Rings, due to his ability to play ten different characters at any one 
time. He had become Peter’s indispensable extra, which, of course, had 
been Glorfindel’s intention so that he could be around everyone. He was 
well-like and trusted by nearly everybody, and they frequently confessed 
to him all their worst fears and highest hopes without realizing they had 
done so. “*How is Peter coping with all this?*”
      “*He-*” Glorfindel coughed slightly, “*or should I say she- has 
taken her sex and species change remarkably well. And since she has 
accepted what has happened, Gimli is much consoled.*”
      Elrohir snickered; he couldn’t help it. “*I still can’t believe the 
Valar brought Gimli’s mother back as a man. What sort of twisted joke is 
that?*”
      “*Apparently one the Valar felt like making,*” Elladan answered. 
“*Glorfindel, did they bring her back as a reward for Gimli, who’s been 
stuck here for so long, or because she’s a sorcerer, like Legolas, and can 
help us fight our Enemy?*”
      “*Maybe both reasons.*” He glanced at Elrond. “*I think we 
should hold counsel this evening, after today’s shoot. I don’t want to wait 
much longer; Orlando may start to doubt his sanity, despite his refound 
love with Viggo.*”
      The others nodded, and Galadriel added, as she sense some 
nervousness among them, “*He still is the strong Prince of Mirkwood 
we’ve all trusted in the past, despite the child’s body he is in right now.*”
      There was silence for several minutes, broken only by their 
breathing, which nearly all could hear, being elves. Treebeard listened to 
the silence and took his own counsel.
      At last, Elrond roused himself and spoke. “*We must go out now, 
and as always, I remind you all to be ready for anything. Glorfindel, go to 
Aragorn and Legolas and watch over them. Treebeard, will you come with 
me to speak with Gandalf?*”
      “*Gandalf is outside the door,*” Galadriel informed him, more 
than smiling, nearly grinning, just before the wizard knocked on the front 
door.
      Elrond smiled at his mother-in-law; if nothing else, the long years 
had given him a more ready sense of humor; life was too dangerous not to 
take pleasure in the small joys. “*Thank you, Lady,*” he answered as he 
rose along with the others.

Chapter Seventeen

	“Legolas… I need to tell you something.”
	It was nearly the end of the episode, and the shoot had gone very 
well. Better than Peter knew he had any right to expect. They had caught 
up to where they should have been, and they were about to finish the 
entire episode. Both Viggo and Orlando had spoken as though they had 
run this scene a hundred times, getting every word, every movement right, 
and yet they still sounded fresh, as if this really was Aragorn and Legolas 
falling in the love, opening their hearts for the first time.
	‘<What am I talking about? This is Aragorn and Legolas, and they 
are in love.>’
	Viggo croaked, his voice picked up by the mike he wore, “Vaad, 
I…” Then he turned away, so that his face was picked up by a different 
camera, and Peter watched the reddening of the older actor’s cheeks.
	Orlando froze for an instant, and his eyes were distant. Then he 
came to life, moving forward to take Viggo in his arms from behind, 
reaching up to touch his face timidly. “Estel, I love you, too.” He closed 
his eyes for a moment and leaned against Viggo’s back.
	There was a pause, just long enough, Peter thought, contentedly, 
then Viggo turned and put his large, calloused hands on the shoulders of 
the other man (elf, Peter/Kyra thought, smiling to him/herself). “Legolas, 
do you mean that?”
	“Yes.” Orlando tilted his head up. “Yes, King of Gondor, if you 
will have me.” He smiled, but there was nothing impish in it, just earnest 
need. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m mistaken,’ his eyes all but screamed. 
‘Please don’t tell me it’s not love I see in your eyes, love that I hear in 
your voice.’
	Viggo touched Orlando’s hair, just below his left ear, and then his 
lips came down to encompass the soft, waiting mouth. Peter felt his heart 
leap- the kiss looked so real, so fresh, so innocent and also so sincere. 
Kyra chided herself. ‘<Looks real? It is real!>’ For a moment, she felt like 
dancing.
	Everything changed. Orlando gasped, as though in pain, and 
doubled over.
	From across the set, Elrohir shot a look at Glorfindel, as though to 
say, ‘Don’t send him a memory now!’ but he saw that Glorfindel’s face 
was twisted in pain. An instant later, Elrohir felt a fire blaze up behind his 
eyes and in his chest and stomach. He groaned and grasped with one hand 
for something to hold onto as he fell forward. His other arm was wrapped 
around his middle.
	It got worse. Something akin to the sound of an exploding atomic 
bomb assaulted his ears, and Elrohir forgot the pain in his stomach as his 
eardrums expanded, shrieking in protest. He clamped both hands over his 
ears, his brain not even registering, however distantly, that he’d hit the 
floor full force and was now curled on his side. He writhed, and didn’t 
realize that he was screaming. His mind couldn’t tell if the pain was 
coming from inside his ears or out, because there was so much of it, but 
the pain was coming from both places, and if Elrohir hadn’t been in so 
much pain, he would have realized that his ears were melting and flowing 
beneath his shuddering hands.
	On the floor, held in Viggo’s tight embrace, Orlando jerked first 
one way, then the other, trying to escape the agony assaulting him. The 
plastic ran off his ears, the artificial points dissolving, as his skin 
reformed.
	Viggo saw it, and his stomach churned. As his lunch rose in his 
throat, he barely managed to twist his head to one side before throwing up, 
missing Orlando. He groaned and moved a little away from the mess, 
bringing Orlando with him. At that moment, the screaming started, and 
Viggo’s head snapped up. Orlando wasn’t the only one in pain, he saw. 
Richard, Michael and Craig, as well as Hugo and Kate, who had come in 
to watch the shoot, were all on the floor. It was Craig who had screamed 
first, but then Kate’s voice joined his, then Michael’s, Orlando’s, 
Richard’s and finally Hugo’s.
	Viggo heard someone yelling, “Call 911! Call 911!” and realized 
in mild surprise that it was his own voice.
	Another voice bellowed, “Damn you, Valar, haven’t they suffered 
enough?” though Viggo didn’t pay much attention to it at the time.
	Slowly, Orlando stopped twitching- he’d passed out a minute or so 
ago, and now he lay completely, deathly still. With trembling fingers, 
Viggo reached out to search at Orlando’s neck for a pulse. Dimly, he 
realized that only one person was still crying out, though his cries were 
less shrill, almost mere gasps. Faintly, his mind was frightened by this, but 
none of that reached his conscious mind. His fingers had found Orlando’s 
pulse, which was amazingly steady, if faster than Viggo liked.
	He looked down into Orlando’s face, and saw sweat streaking 
down the beautiful skin. Gently, he pulled his lover into his lap.
	“They’re all alive,” a voice announced suddenly, making Viggo 
flinch, and he looked up to see Ian McKellen straightening from Hugo’s 
side. Hugo, Viggo saw, had his eyes open, but he wasn’t moving, and pain 
still darkened his features. “Hopefully that was the worst of it.”
	“Do they all have their ears?” John asked from somewhere behind 
Viggo; he was probably near Kate and Michael.
	‘What a ridiculous question,’ Viggo thought, even as he looked 
down to see if Orlando’s ears were intact. He gasped. He’d thought the 
plastic had melted, and yet Orlando’s ears still bore clear, clean points. He 
reached out to touch one of them, and noticed it was warm. He pulled it 
gently, thinking to remove the plastic. Orlando moaned and flailed weakly 
at him, though he didn’t wake up. Viggo stopped at once.
	“Elrond and Elrohir have theirs,” Ian answered. He called, 
“Aragorn, are Legolas’s ears all right?”
	Viggo stared back at him, but Ian wasn’t joking. Those were the 
words he’d meant to say, Viggo realized dimly. “What?” he asked, part of 
his mind insisting he had heard wrong, or that Ian had really spoken those 
words because of his deep shock. Or something like that.
	“Are Legolas’s ears all right?” Ian repeated. He stood up, then, 
slowly, squeezing Hugo’s shoulder before crossing to Viggo. He knelt and 
touched Orlando’s face, turning his head first one way, then the other, to 
check. “He’s all right,” he called to John, looking over Viggo’s shoulder. 
“Just unconscious.”
	John didn’t answer Ian. “Lady Galadriel, can you hear me?”
	A soft moan answered him, then a voice Viggo would have never 
associated with Kate, but would have seemed perfectly at home emerging 
from the mouth of a million-year-old lady-elf, responded, “I’m recovering, 
Gimli, thank you. Please go check on Elrond, the twins, Glorfindel and 
Legolas.”
	“Are you all right?” Ian asked, placing a hand on Viggo’s shoulder 
that made the actor jump.
	“I’m-I’m fine.” Viggo looked down at Orlando again. “What 
happened?” Then he chided himself. ‘How could he know?’
	“I believe the Valar returned them to their original state,” the old 
man answered confidently, turning his ‘I believe’ into an ‘I know’. There 
was a ghost of anger in his voice. “Such transformations are rarely 
painless. Not only their ears have changed, Aragorn son of Arathorn, but 
the entire composition of their bodies. They are elves again.” He was 
looking straight into Viggo’s eyes the whole time he was speaking, and he 
watched the confusion, fear, frustration and hopeless resignation take their 
turns in his eyes. In a tone he probably thought was soothing, but which 
Viggo took as distant, Ian said, “Wait and you will see.”

Chapter Eighteen

	The six elves lay quietly as their bodies relearned how to turn 
down the volume on the world around them. The room would have 
seemed nearly silent, almost terrifyingly so, to men, but they all listened to 
each breath, each whisper of a breeze, and they remembered how to live in 
the noisy world.
	Elrond, who had remained conscious during the entire 
metamorphosis, seemed weakest, but also the least likely to hold still 
much longer. ‘*Gandalf said that we have less than two weeks. How long 
have we been lying here? There is not time for this recovery!*’ He turned 
his head, and watched as his sons listened to the world and remembered 
what it was like to be nearly light as air, and yet strong as any man, and 
quicker. Elrohir flexed his hands experimentally, making a faint rustling 
sound. Elladan stretched his renewed muscles very slowly, studying their 
abilities, as a new captain would test the capabilities of his crew.
	Elrond’s eyes moved to Lady Galadriel, who seemed to be 
listening, both inside and outside herself, for changes in the world. 
Feathers of pain crossed her features from time to time, and Elrond’s heart 
went out to her. Her golden hair was lying on the pillow all around her 
face, curled up like some sleeping, peaceful, imaginary creature. It was an 
analogy that made Elrond smile even as he thought of it, and he only 
hoped the Lady of the Wood didn’t hear it. 
	His eyes moved to Glorfindel, and his heart leapt with joy. At 
least, he, Elrond, as well as Lady Galadriel and Legolas, had been able to 
assume their original appearances during the shooting of the movies and 
television series. This had felt like a blessing from the first, and he’d 
realized with sadness that it was a miracle his sons and Glorfindel couldn’t 
participate in. But unlike Glorfindel, his sons had been fortunate; Elrohir 
was granted the long, dark brown hair that he’d always prized as a child, 
and his eyes seemed just as old (and mischievous) as they had in the Land 
of the Dead. Elladan, though almost everything was changed about his 
outward appearance, had thrown himself into tracking all the other reborn 
ones, as he called them, and barely, not even in his deepest, most secret 
thoughts, noticed that his appearance was much altered. Glorfindel, 
though, as much as he tried to concentrate on the current time and place, 
had missed his speed and accuracy with bow and arrow, as well as his 
light steps. Simply put, he’d hated being human, and never had quite 
forgiven the Valar, though he was grateful enough and retained enough 
respect for them not to be openly rebellious or sacrilegious.
	Now, though, Elrond could see how his friend had changed: the 
delicate Elven features, and the long, slightly shimmering blond hair left 
no doubt in Elrond’s mind that Glorfindel had been given back what he’d 
so desperately missed.
	These thoughts made him think about his own body’s changes, but 
he put that thought aside to look at Legolas. The youngest elf lay with the 
blanket drawn nearly to his chin, as though he were a child afraid of the 
dark, but Elrond could see his hands lay atop the coverlet, and there was 
no tension in them.
	Finally, he turned his attention to the noisiest person in the room, 
who would have appeared to be sitting relatively quietly to most men; 
Gimli huddled in a chair beside Legolas’s bed, murmuring to him in a 
mixture of Dwarvish and the Common Speech (English, Elrond reminded 
himself for the thousandth time) as tears trickled down his cheeks. Elrond 
watched him lean forward and kiss Legolas’s hand; he’d done that three or 
four times already, and then sit back again. The first time he’d done that, 
Legolas had jumped a little, but he was used to it now, and it even brought 
a smile to his haggard, tired face.
	Then Elrond’s eyes roved to the man on the other side of the bed. 
He would have blended into the shadows if there had been any in this 
room. He looked both lonely and glad to be ignored. There was an ancient, 
flickering light in his eyes, and Elrond wondered, sadness making his 
mouth taste like old, dried leaves, bitter, but still miraculously glowing, 
how his human son had survived through so many ages of the world. 
‘Legolas must have truly been his strength,’ he decided as Aragorn shifted 
slightly in his chair and looked back at him. Elrond tried to draw up a 
memory of what that look reminded him of, and finally he settled on 
Strider, as he’d appeared in Rivendell before the forming of the 
Fellowship. His son was hardened against the world at that moment, 
fearing to disturb Legolas, telling himself he didn’t need to be any closer, 
though he passionately did, and planning for the uncertain future as only 
the chief of the exiled, running, hunting Dunedain could.
      Elrond often felt that his son was lucky in a way; every time a new 
phase of his life was begun, his name changed to suit the man he had to be 
to meet the challenges he was about to face. In Rivendell, he’d been Estel, 
needing and giving so much hope, then he’d become Aragorn, King of 
Men, for a short time, then Strider, the exile, his name giving him the 
mystery, strength and roughness he’d needed to survive in the Wild.
	Strider blinked at him now, and for an instant Estel shone behind 
his eyes, and the boy was scared and hurt. Then a new person took over, 
and Elrond understood that Viggo was still fighting for his identity. ‘*Did 
Estel ever fight Strider?*’ Elrond wondered, and in that room, with change 
and acceptance taking place around him, where six elves were recovering 
from a miracle, this didn’t seem like an amusing question, but a very sad, 
troubling one.
	He stood up and moved towards his youngest son. His movement 
drew the attention of everyone in the room except Gimli and Legolas. 
Elrond put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “*Come, I need to speak with 
you.*”
	The man rose and followed him from the room, and not until they 
were sitting in a tiny, crowded storage room did Elrond get another look at 
his face. At first, he didn’t recognize the person he saw looking out from 
behind the grey eyes, then he recognized it was a very battered, frightened, 
yet strong Aragorn. Later, Elrond would realize that Viggo was just 
another name his son had worm for a while, until it was done serving its 
purpose.
	He wasn’t sure which name to approach the man with, and so he 
settled for, “My son, are you well?” It was as good a question as any to get 
Aragorn to talk, but Elrond already knew the answer of course; it was 
written all over Aragorn’s face.
	“No,” answered Aragorn candidly, honest with his father and 
himself. “I mean, I’m fine,” Viggo argued. There was a pause of about 
three seconds, then Estel whispered, “Legolas doesn’t want me there.”
	Elrond’s first impulse was to tell him he was wrong; he ignored 
that one. His second thought was to ask his son why he felt that way. This, 
too, he pushed to the side. “Aragorn, there will be a war soon.” Perhaps it 
was not the best statement to make, given the man’s mental condition, but 
it got the desired result; first, Strider’s eyes flashed, then Aragorn’s calm, 
determined gaze met his.
	“What war?”
	Elrond settled back for a long explanation, made longer each time 
Viggo came out to protest the ridiculous situation.
	“You have lived through the War of the Ring, Aragorn, and if you 
will not acknowledge that, Viggo-” for the man’s eyes had changed again- 
“you’ve read its account in The Lord of the Rings. Sauron was destroyed 
at last through the destruction of the One Ring, and his spirit does not live 
on, but he instilled a need for power in others, and that thirst does continue 
to thrive. Others have attempted to reforge the One Ring, in all its terrible 
power, but several things have kept them from doing so. First of all, after 
the majority of the elves left Middle Earth, much of the magic departed 
with them. The Istari left as well, and dwarves, men and hobbits have no 
magic of their own, except that which lies in love. Secondly, you and 
Legolas foiled two plots of that kind, where people, both men and 
dwarves, managed to reforge the Ring for evil. Three, nearly everyone on 
Earth has forgotten that Middle Earth ever existed, and thus couldn’t know 
such a weapon was possible. They have created their own weapons, of 
course, and those have wreaked much destruction, but it was hoped that 
certain terrible things were gone forever from the world. I speak of 
Ringwraiths, wizards (though not all are evil), orcs and trolls.”
      Lord Elrond took a deep breath. “At least, we thought they were 
gone, until now.”
	He waited for a reaction, if not from Aragorn, then from Viggo, 
but received none, and continued:
	“Many of these creatures have taken different forms, unknown 
ones, and thus they are the more dangerous because they could be among 
us without our knowing it. Except, now that we- I speak of myself and the 
other Elves- have regained our original forms, we can sense them. And 
any sorcerer can sense them.”
	Aragorn blurted, “Legolas will feel them, then, as he is both.” 
Then the man subsided again, and his eyes flickered again between 
Aragorn’s steely grey and Viggo’s determined-not-to-be-swayed gaze.
	“That’s true,” Elrond answered, heartened by Aragorn’s brief 
triumph over Viggo. “Our next conclusion was to realize that their 
transformation is not natural, and so they must have a creator, and possibly 
a leader. We are sure this leader exists, and we are sure she is female, but 
that is nearly all that has been revealed to us through visions and intense 
study.”
	“Will you tell me the rest?”
	“At the counsel this evening, yes, I and others will. Right now, I 
wanted to let you know that the changes you are seeing and feeling are 
perfectly fine, if not normal. To do that, I had to give you a little bit of 
background information.” He gazed at the fluctuating expression on his 
son’s face. “Please don’t be afraid, Viggo; this is all quite true, and not at 
all as crazy as it sounds. And Aragorn, please be patient.”
	“My memory is fragmented,” Aragorn complained.
	“Yes, I know. It may be for some time. At this time, all I need is 
for you to have an open mind, and be willing to take this new challenge 
one step at a time. Will you do that for me/”
	“Orli believes you, doesn’t he?” Viggo demanded, sounding hurt 
and alone, as though Orlando’s acceptance was a deliberate attack and 
insult.
	“I don’t know, but it would seem he has no choice, as he has now 
taken on the appearance and reactions of an elf instead of a man,” Elrond 
answered, his patience nearly endless.
	Then both Aragorn and Viggo subsided, deep in thought, and 
Elrond got up. “I must go take a walk. When you are ready, please return 
to Legolas’s bedside.” That request brought a glimmer of pain across 
Viggo’s face, and a look of confusion from Aragorn, but neither answered, 
and so Elrond, counted among the very wisest of Middle Earth, left 
silently, trusting to his own discretion.

Chapter Nineteen

	Orlando struggled to understand what had happened to him. ‘I’m 
an elf, just like John sai