DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

WARNING: Contains blood and violence, as usual.

For some time, he crossed between patches of hazy darkness and sudden light, accompanied by violent pain. He remembered the swirling clouds above the battlefield and the dizzying relief as Aragorn's face swam into sight above him. Aragorn was telling him that they had won their impossible victory, that the Eye of Sauron had fallen from its tower and would not rise again. It must be so, for despite the pain that had set into his body, the blazing, icy claws in his chest that had overcome him earlier were gone. Perhaps the Black Riders, too, had met their deaths. The Man's voice grew panicked and distant. Aragorn was calling for him, but he could feel his heart faltering and he was tired beyond measure. Dark waters closed over his head and he let himself fall into them.

"Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen... Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen..."

Someone was singing. Singing of the sun and the Western winds, those warm buffets of air that came from the Undying Lands, from Aman. He could almost feel them. For a moment he was back in Mirkwood, the grass shifting softly in the wind, the trees murmuring to him, the sun on the back of his neck. It must be summer... A sudden rush of agony hit him like a burst of winter snow. He heard his own voice crying out as he was brought roughly back to the world, sensed a flurry of movement around him.

"Remove your hand! Stand back!"

"My Lord Gimli, I was merely tending to-"

"It is no ordinary wound, boy. Why is the lad here and not in his rooms?"

"All the wounded are brought here, My Lord, there are-"

There was a muffled yelp and a scuffle of feet on stone floors. A soft rush of air hit his face as someone stopped beside him, robes whispering with something greater than a simple Man. A loud, aged voice, brimming with calm authority, silenced the activity.

"Release him, Gimli. Your efforts are better spent retrieving the supplies - You there, help me lift him."

The ground moved upwards, dipping slightly. He was lying on something, then. He wanted to awake and decipher exactly where he was, what was going on, why there was so much pain rolling over him. His head was throbbing dully and the dizziness was disorientating. A cool breeze swept across him, and he became aware of a wetness on his chest. He tried to lift his hand but his body was leaden, and he barely managed to move it at all. With a huge effort he forced his eyes to see through the clouds hovering over him. A bright light was moving beside him, long white hair, a white robe... Clear blue-grey eyes met his. They were familiar, but he could not find the name of their owner. Before he could try to speak the darkness was pulling him away, and there was no pain there. He let it take him.

There was a hand hovering over his face - he could feel icy fingertips on his brow. Someone was speaking in an old tongue, one that even he could not fully understand. There was a faint gasping, whimpering sound coming from somewhere nearby. With a sudden jolt he became aware of a gentle touch pressing and pushing over his chest. The pain was back at once, blasting him from each of his senses. It was so intense, so burning hot that he could not breathe. When he returned to himself his hand was fisted tightly in a velvet sleeve, holding so tight he thought the material would tear. He felt like his body itself was tearing. Everything was shaking violently, as if he had been hurled into a hurricane.

"Gandalf, hurry... Goheno nin, Legolas, sha... Thul, enni..."

The voice was close by, and he trusted it inherently. As it spoke he realised that those distant moans were coming from his own throat, and he hastily bit his lip in an attempt to quiet them. The realisation made him horribly aware of the poor state he must be in. He still could not see, could not bring the world into focus. It took everything he had to relax his fist. His arm was trembling so hard that it hurt, every muscle in his body spasming with the hot pain. It seemed to be everywhere. A hand closed over his in a brief gesture of companionship before letting go. As he struggled for control over his ragged breathing a tranquil mist settled over him like a shroud and he saw again the trees of Mirkwood, tall slender trunks and soft, feathery leaves...

He could see a strange, distorted version of his own face. He gazed at it for a few long moments before reaching the understanding that he was looking at a beaten-metal water jug. His image was stretched across its curved surface. Picking the sight apart, he made out an ugly, purple-red mark spreading over one side of his face. His features were blurred with sweat and he could feel an uncomfortable heat raging under his skin. Somewhere behind him, reflected in the metal, a tall figure with long, dark hair was moving about. The room he was in was foggy, but it was a room, and there were blankets against his skin, and the air was bright with dawn light. He could feel no danger. Sleep was pulling at him and he retreated back into his own mind, allowing his body to win.

When he next woke, it was much more slowly. His senses came back to him piece by piece, filtering through the haze of sleep gradually, as sunlight makes its way through thick leaves. He blinked at the stone ceiling high above him, recognising it almost at once. He had been returned to the room in Minas Tirith. He lay still for a while, feeling his body wake around him, feeling for pain. His chest was throbbing with that old, now-familiar ache, far more bearable now than it had been before. He moved his hand slowly upwards, brushed his fingers cautiously over the bandages. They seemed thinner than he remembered. Gathering his strength, moving slow, he reached for the bedside table and sat upright. His head span sickeningly, but with a few measured breaths he held control. Using the table and wall to support himself, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

His legs were weak and his wound seared, punishing him for the movement, but he could stand. He looked down at his feet - again, he was wearing the loose, linen trousers that Gondorians seemed so fond of - and enjoyed the feeling of the cool stone floor. Limping, leaning heavily on the wall, he made his way to the window and pushed it open with a shaking hand. Already his body was demanding rest, but he did not intend to be on his feet for long. He sucked in a deep breath of cool, clean air, rejoicing in the sunlight. He felt as if he had breathed for the first time in weeks. His window looked out upon the next level of Minas Tirith, where people were hurrying to and fro, shouting, bartering, arguing. Beyond the white walls of Minas Tirith, the scars from the Battle of Peleannor Fields had began to disappear from the land. And on the horizon, the skies were a cool, clear blue above the mountains.

He watched a small flock of birds sweeping from side to side in the distance, relishing the wind and the sun on his face. His heart felt surprisingly light. The citadel was at peace, the sky was at peace - his fractured memories of the Battle of the Black Gate must be true. They had emerged from the War of the Ring victorious, and never more would Sauron's hand threaten his home. The spiders would retreat to the mountains, the earth would heal, homes would be re-built. Life would return to Middle Earth, even stronger than before.

His legs were growing shaky. He put a hand on the windowsill and was about to attempt to return to bed when a quiet tread reached his ears and the door to his room clicked softly open. He turned, retaining his grip on the wall.

Dressed in a simple, grey tunic and leggings, and puffing small plumes of smoke from his pipe, Aragorn stepped through the door.

Legolas felt relief well up in his heart at the sight of him. The last vivid memory he had of the Man was seeing him fall beneath the blows of a troll. He remembered his face afterwards, but little of what condition he had been in. Yet now, Aragorn moved easily without stiffness or help, and the care had flown from his face. He looked younger than he had at the Battle, despite the beard that was filling out on his cheeks. It was as if his skin was brighter, his step livelier, the fear for the outcome of the War of the Ring long behind him. He was frowning at a few papers held loosely in one hand, his gaze flickering over the page. Engaged in his reading, he had not yet noticed that Legolas had risen.

"Galu, Lord Aragorn," Legolas said quietly, a grin pulling at his lips.

Aragorn started, spluttering on the smoke he had just inhaled. His stared at the Elf in surprise, his mouth comically hanging open, before casting his papers and pipe down onto a nearby chair and striding over. His face split into a large grin as he reached for Legolas' arm, laughing out loud.

"Legolas, ae!" he cried, gripping his arm jovially. "I did not think to find you awake. Ni veren an gi ngovaned, mellon nin!"

"And you," Legolas said, taking his arm to return the greeting.

His head was beginning to spin once more and Aragorn looked at him a little closer, his gaze narrowing with concern. Legolas smiled at him, offering a small shake of his head in response to the unanswered question.

"I'm alright. Boe I poston."

Aragorn nodded and put an arm around his shoulders. "Toro."

Legolas let the Man help him over to the bed, thankful that Aragorn moved slowly. He sat down, closed his eyes once more. His blood was beating in his head - apparently he was still healing. He felt a light touch on his arm and looked up. Aragorn was sitting beside him, eyeing the bandage.

"Lord Elrond wanted the wound examined, mellon nin. Would you...?"

"Lord Elrond?" Legolas repeated, glancing at him sharply. "He's here?"

"He arrived a few days ago. I sent word asking for his aid," Aragorn explained, his nimble fingers already untying the strips of cloth. "He was to be arriving soon anyway, for-"

"For your coronation," Legolas finished. Yet there was no crown on Aragorn's head. "Do not say I have slept through it."

Aragorn smiled, shaking his head as he pulled the last of the bandages away. "Û, Legolas, you have not. It is two days hence. Frodo and Sam have only just recovered themselves."

Legolas looked down at himself as Aragorn sat back. He ghosted a hand over his own skin, blinking in amazement. Lord Elrond was known for his gifts in medicine, but even so the wound had healed remarkably. It was visibly thinner and shallower than it had been, although still red and raw. Aragorn had received a pot and some fresh bandages from the table in the corner and returned. He dipped his fingers into it and spread the paste gently over what remained of the injury. It still hurt, but Legolas was so taken aback by the recovery that he barely noticed. And Frodo and Sam had been plucked out of Mordor, and were already recovered! It felt like only yesterday they had claimed victory.

"Man lû?" he said, frowning at Aragorn. "How long has it been?"

Aragorn glanced up from his concentration, his gaze suddenly soft. He put the pot aside and retrieved a thin bandage, leaned forwards to set it in place. "It has been some time, mellon nin. Seven days since the Battle of the Black Gate."

The knowledge left Legolas reeling. Seven days? Never had he slept for so long. He tried to think back, consider whether he had woken, but he could only remember short fragments, and even they offered him little. Aragorn tied off the cloth and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him back to lean against the pillows. He obeyed, still raking his memories. He could barely remember a single clear moment since the battlefield. He could see himself struggling with the orc in his final seconds of clarity, his arms trembling as he held its sword away from his neck. Its armoured fist had lifted and slammed into his head, and his strength had finally failed. He touched his left cheek, felt the remains of a graze, felt tender skin. The blow had been hard enough to take its time healing. Aragorn was watching him carefully. He placed the pot on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for a metal water jug and a cup.

"Te harn?" he asked.

Legolas shook his head. "It does not hurt."

Aragorn passed him the cup of water and he drank some obediently, still trying to piece together the last few days. Perhaps seeing his confusion, Aragorn sighed and replaced the jug.

"You lost much blood, mellon nin, on the battlefield and off. And in the days after a fever set in. You were beyond my help - Gandalf advised we called for Elrond. Thankfully he rode fast... Without him I fear we would not have saved you."

Legolas held the Man's gaze, distinctly aware of all the struggle and emotion that had been left out of that calm summary of the past few days. He could not imagine a fever that Aragorn could not tame. Perhaps his wound had become infected during the final battle, or his body had simply given up the fight. Searching deep within his mind, he found vague impressions of cold hands of him, of a blisteringly hot pain that made him scream and moan aloud, of Aragorn's voice begging him to breathe, to withstand the hell just a little longer...

"He will be glad to know you are awake," Aragorn continued at last. "Gimli, too, I dare say."

Gimli, of course. He owed the Dwarf his life for his conduct during their final battle. Without him, Legolas had no doubt that he would have died on the battlefield. He remembered the short, stocky figure coming between he and the Nazgul, wielding a rusted sword, and he could not withhold a laugh. Upon beginning the quest, he would never have expected to feel such kinship with a Dwarf. He had never been happier to be proved wrong.

"Gwador nin?" Aragorn was still waiting for a response, his brow furrowed in concern.

Legolas reached forwards to take his shoulder once more, smiling. "You are a King of Men now, Estel. Perhaps the greatest there ever was."

Aragorn smirked and shook his head. "I do not feel it, my friend. I still feel like the Ranger I have always been."

"I am glad I may attend the coronation."

Aragorn rose to collect his pipe and leaned on the windowsill to smoke, aware of keeping the room fresh for his Elven kin. He tapped ash out of it, glancing up to meet Legolas' gaze.

"I am glad you will, too. For a time, I thought it would not be so. I am glad to be wrong."

And for a few long hours they spoke as friends, as if the War of the Ring was eons away from them, speaking of old times and of new plans. A tension had fallen away from the world. Now was finally a time for idle conversation and passing thoughts.

When the coronation came, Legolas walked with the Elven procession to lead the new Queen of Gondor to her King before taking his place at Gimli's side, close to Aragorn's right hand. His heart smiled as he watched the King's crowning and marriage, as Gimli snorted tearfully into his beard and tried to pretend he was coughing. The air was bright with petals and sunlight, and as they walked to the feast to welcome in the new Age of Men, the wound barely pained him at all.

At last, it was done.

Elvish

Forgive me - Goheno nin

Almost - Sha

Breathe - Thul

For me (Please) - Enni

I beg of you - Dhen iallon

Hello - Galu

I am joyous to see you - Ni veren an gi ngovaned

How long? - Man lû?

I am tired - Boe i *poston

Come - Tolo

No - Û

THE END.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. Sorry if the ending was a little rushed - I'm going back to work today and wanted to upload this final chapter before I went on another few months break from writing.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and given such kind feedback. I hope the ending did not disappoint!

SUPRNTRAL LVR.