hello gang!

So this is it... this Epilogue ends Your Light in the Dark. Thank you so much to anyone who's stuck with me through it, and especially to everyone who shared their thoughts via reviews and PMs. Your generosity and kindness are invaluable to the completion of this project, and I will try my best to issue personalized responses in the next few weeks and months.

The coronavirus situation is turning our world topsy-turvy... I hope my work brings anyone who reads it some amusement and joy. Stay safe, stay healthy, be kind, and never lose hope :) C&Cs are as welcome as always 3

Some housekeeping: The third part of my usual Afterword will be posted at the end of the fic, which will feature Acknowledgments of Reviewers, and a Note on the Next Project (even if it will likely never be posted, just to manage expectations). Anyways, without further ado:

# # #

Epilogue

# # #

Interlude 3/3: A Noun and A Verb

In Gondor, After The War of the Ring

# # #

There was a time in his life when thought for certain that the world had ended.

It was a distant but unshakable force, like glass that fell and shattered in another room. Something had become irrecoverable, and it was only a matter of walking up to open the door and find all the remnants of it.

Legolas.

All throughout the quest of the Fellowship and their distance during the War of the Ring, the Woodland's Prince's fea was like the heartbeat that pulsed through Glorfindel's life even though he often did not heed it. It was simply persistently and indispensably there, but unimposing. It let him work, and it left him be.

But it was inescapable in select situations.

In a lonely, quiet night it thundered in his ears.

When he was fighting and at the end of his strength, it was loud and forceful in his veins, a wellspring of power - sometimes its last frontier.

Glorfindel had gotten hurt once, twice, slightly, grievously, here and there - they all did. But in these instances that heartbeat roared and would not be ignored. It was the thrumming energy that always brought him back to his feet.

Get up, get up, get up went the insistent rhythm, and he always would because getting to his feet meant that one day, he could step forward on the winding road that led to love at the end.

Legolas thus spurred the first step, he powered the journey, and he was also the destination.

But one day that heartbeat jerked and stilled, and it stole Glorfindel's breath, sending him to his knees. The devastation of the loss of it folded him forward in half. He held himself tightly, even while he cast his soul open, like a wide net with worldly expanse.

Where have you gone?

He was so certain the world had ended.

And then the heartbeat stuttered to starting again, and Glorfindel himself unfurled and came alive anew. He took a deep breath, one after the other after the other.

Legolas was alive, and so he was too.

But the beat had changed. It was lighter and thinner, no longer earthbound. It had the sway and lilt of the ocean.

Glorfindel knew it for what it was: Legolas had been called to that elven home which lay beyond the glorious but sundering Sea.

It altered the song of the elven prince's soul – the same way a tune goes up a half step to a different key. The song was fundamentally the same, but the change was unmistakable.

# # #

Glorfindel knew it the very moment it happened, like a sudden clearing of the air: Sauron had been vanquished.

Shortly afterwards, from where he had offered his services and fought beside the Elvenking Thranduil in Eryn Galen, Glorfindel received a request from Elrond to travel to Gondor.

It was nominally to be part of the forward party for the Returned King's wedding to the Evenstar. But Glorfindel also knew it was a blessing from Elrond, for it was well-known that Legolas of the Woodland Realm was there and the Lord of Imladris knew what he meant to the ancient warlord. Glorfindel received Elrond's request enthusiastically.

The wartime hope he harbored finally became an indisputable truth: he was taking the first step on a road where love waited at the end.

Glorfindel was dispatched to the White City with a party of elves from Eryn Galen – they had business with their prince – and an entourage of elves from Imladris to assist Glorfindel in preparations. It made for an impressive entourage, but the traveling group was unwieldly and they near-drove Glorfindel mad on the journey. The loyal Istor, taking amused pity on his commander, encouraged Glorfindel to ride ahead and he barely gave it a thought. The roads were safe enough now, and he simply could not wait.

It was how he arrived alone on horseback before everyone else.

Every step brought him closer...

But almost immediately upon his arrival in the White City, Glorfindel was delayed from reaching his true destination. Gimli Son of Gloin was at the very gate to the storied capital of the King, his dwarven expertise well put-to-work by human engineers and planners over repairs and improvements. The last time they saw each other was the Fellowship's departure from Rivendell.

"Master Dwarf," Glorfindel dismounted his horse and greeted him with earnest delight. He was happy to be reunited with one of the glorious Fellowship, but he was distracted too, looking forward to a reunion of a different sort. He looked about for Legolas, just in case he too hovered near.

There had been talk the elf and dwarf were now inseparable – but Legolas was nowhere to be seen, and maybe it was just a rumor. Plenty of those going around about the Fellowship nowadays, including a few tall tales of Legolas' prowess – a mumakil? really? – that made Glorfindel's stomach twist and that he was hoping were false.

"Lord Glorfindel," Gimli greeted him with more restraint.

His beady eyes were sharp beneath his brows, and Glorfindel had the distinct feeling of being... measured. It was strangely fitting, considering Gimli was literally holding a measuring stick. He had abandoned a conference with human workers over written plans on a rickety table nearby, in favor of Glorfindel's company.

"Well met!" Glorfindel told him. "Quite the journey you have been on – and a victory much deserved."

"And much paid for," Gimli said grimly.

Glorfindel nodded, and sympathized with what was no doubt, a reference to the burdens of Frodo, as well as the widely-reported loss of the Gondorian warrior, Boromir. All the rest of the Fellowship would assuredly be living with each their own scars too, he thought – Legolas among them, for the sea-calling. Glorfindel placed a hand over his heart and gave Gimli a solemn bow.

"I am sorry for all that you have lost and all you have been through," he said sincerely. "May the brighter years of the new age you helped forge bring our world true healing and great joy."

"May it indeed," Gimli said.

Glorfindel considered it a good exit, but apparently the dwarf did not. Glorfindel made a step around and forward, but his way was blocked. He frowned and waited quietly for the dwarf to speak his mind.

Gimli glanced at the humans waiting for his return and staring at them. He took Glorfindel familiarly by the elbow – a surprisingly intimate gesture from a dwarf to an elf - and steered him away. Yet he still hesitated with what he wanted to say.

"You seek Aragorn, I presume."

Glorfindel nodded. "My first duty is to greet and issue reports to Elessar. Upon my person I carry word from the leaders of no less than five realms. From Elrond of Imladris who had sent me; from the Elvenking Thranduil with whom I served; from Lothlorien as we worked in close concert in Eryn Lasgalen in the final days of the War; and from Erebor and Laketown nearby."

He caught Gimli's twitch at the word "Erebor," and he clarified quickly: "You probably know by now your kin have emerged victorious. But I bear assurance also, that your father himself came out well."

Gimli exhaled slowly and grinned. "Aye – I never doubted."

Glorfindel smiled at him encouragingly and was hoping the spot of good news would make Gimli more forthcoming now. He was not disappointed.

"Men have odd notions of kings," Gimli said. "They have Aragorn running about ragged."

Glorfindel looked up at the large, mighty, thrumming City. "I suppose it would be difficult to find him in this maze, and I should present myself formally to his chief-of-staff, or aide-de-camp or diplomatic minister or protocol officer... whichever is nearest."

Gimli tsked at him. "You could, but I can almost guarantee you no one would be able to find him until much later."

Glorfindel looked at him thoughtfully. "Have you any better ideas, Master Dwarf?"

"Of course I do," Gimli said boldly. He glanced at the men waiting for him again, and he sighed with regret. "Ah, what a boon it would have been if I was the one who brought you to him. What riches I could later reap."

Glorfindel had no idea what he was talking about. "By bringing me to Aragorn?"

The question was ignored, and Gimli sighed anew. "But duties come first, I suppose."

Gimli motioned for Glorfindel to lean in and come closer, and was duly obliged.

"There is one place Aragorn goes when he needs to be hidden for a while," Gimli whispered in his ear. "You will find him in Legolas' chambers at the King's House. Someone like you will find no trouble entering it."

Glorfindel frowned, and pulled back slightly in surprise. He did not know what Aragorn's presence in Legolas' rooms might mean for him, but Gimli pulled him closer.

"Just make sure that pointy-eared wood-elf knows I was the one who sent you to him," Gimli said. "Make sure he knows it was by my doing that you should be reunited so efficiently. Make sure Aragorn knows too. Teach those two fools to take the good counsel of this wise dwarf more seriously!"

Glorfindel's brows furrowed, but the dwarf did not expound before irreverently waving him away.

"Take care of him," Gimli said, as he returned to his company of working men. Glorfindel shook his head at Gloin's son with confusion and amusement. Dwarves were so strange, sometimes.

Glorfindel mounted his horse and looked up at the mighty City. Legolas was somewhere up there. Why Aragorn would be in his rooms was a mild worry that paled next to the fact that Legolas was only steps away, only moments away.

Glorfindel stretched out his senses, and opened up his fea the way he always did when the ernil was near. He began a familiar tune low in his breath, and waited for someone to join him and make it a duet...

... but there was nothing.

He prodded his horse forward, faster.

# # #

Just as Gimli said, it was easy for an elf of Glorfindel's bearing to enter the innermost chambers of the King's house. He had no qualms about using – abusing? - the edain's usual bewilderment of the eldar to his advantage, if it helped him attain his objectives.

In short order he had gotten his horse stabled and settled, and had been ushered right to the very doors of the rooms assigned to the elven prince.

It was the destination of all these years. The end of the road, where love stood waiting.

But why is it so silent?

Glorfindel hesitated, and raised his hand to knock. He cleared his throat to declare his presence to anyone who may hear him from within. But before he could put his fist to rap at the door, he heard a quiet shuffling from inside, and the doors were pried open by none other than the man who was supposed to be the King of Gondor.

They gaped at each other in surprise.

It was equally undignified, Glorfindel conceded.

Aragorn, however, recovered first. He placed a finger to his lips for quiet, looked up and down the corridors, and then pulled Glorfindel into Legolas' sitting room. The Woodland Prince himself was out of immediate sight.

Glorfindel saw him finally, the deeper he went into the paper-strewn space. The doors to the sleeping quarters were ajar, and Legolas was in there, laying blanketed over the bed and heavily asleep. His face was starkly white and wan, save for dark shadows beneath alarmingly closed eyes.

Glorfindel's breath caught in his throat, for how brutally familiar was this sight? He stepped forward at once, but like Gimli had done, Aragorn got in his way. Glorfindel whipped his head at the adan in annoyance at further delay.

"Please," Aragorn implored him quietly, "I'd thank you not to wake him, my lord. I've only just prevailed upon him to sleep."

"That is not sleeping," Glorfindel hissed.

A small, sad smile teased at Aragorn's face. "I suppose it isn't, by usual standards. Let me re-phrase: I've only just prevailed upon him to take a draught that helps him sleep. Let it deepen, and then he wouldn't wake for a few hours even if we started jumping on the bed."

Glorfindel hesitated. He was not ready to be appeased, and his eyes raked hungrily over Legolas' still form. He could not see beneath the blanket pulled midway up the wood-elf's chest, but he did not detect the added bulk of bandages, nor could he see or smell traces of blood.

Legolas, unmarred as he was though, still looked... unwell. The warrior's braids have been undone – they were loose and splayed about the bed, but neatly... as if he'd barely moved. And the beautiful adroit hands of Arda's most gifted archer were limp on his sides, palms up, softly open, vulnerable.

"I did not receive word he'd been hurt," Glorfindel said tentatively. He kept his eyes on the prince, but stepped back as was requested. Aragorn relaxed.

"I don't know if 'hurt' is the proper word for it," Aragorn said, "But he's certainly ailing enough."

"The sea-calling," Glorfindel said.

Aragorn's eyes lit in interest. "You know...?"

"I felt it," Glorfindel answered. "And when I met with the Lady Galadriel, she told me it had been foreseen for Legolas."

"Do you know much about it?" Aragorn asked. "If you do, I might know how to make his situation more bearable."

"Why would there be a need for intervention?"

Aragorn paused, before replying – "He means to defy it and stay for a while... for me, for all the others that he loves here."

Glorfindel took a deep, slow breath. "I do not know much about this, Estel – only that it has never been defied. It is a call to the core of the soul. He is going against his nature." He shook his head worriedly. "This is ill-advised, and the results are as we are beginning to see it."

Glorfindel was genuinely horrified by the thought of Legolas postponing his journey now that he had been called. There was no silencing the Sea, once stirred in an elf – especially for the forest-sheltered Silvans. To be called by the Sea and try to keep mortal attachments in Arda would be like a ship throwing anchor in the middle of a raging storm. The waves can come from any direction, battering mercilessly against a tethered vessel until it breaks apart.

"You need to let him go," Glorfindel told Aragorn softly.

"I am trying," Aragorn admitted with a wince. "He won't hear of it. He says it is not some dread disease or illness. He says he's borne worse things. But I am not blind even if he is willing to play at it." He paused. "He's been missing days. Some are lost to him altogether. He doesn't even know."

Glorfindel sighed, and ran his hands over his face. "I will make my own case. His father will too. Thranduil was told in the same occasion that I was."

Aragorn grimaced. "Ah, Legolas was hoping to speak of it with the Elvenking himself. This is why, as grave a matter as it is – a malady befalls a foreign prince - I did not mention it in the first missives to Thranduil. That wily wood-elf prince said I was excused from doing so because at the time, I was not yet crowned King. He pulled rank on me, if you can believe it."

Glorfindel stared at Legolas, so deeply asleep. So profoundly absent.

"Why did you let him?" Glorfindel murmured.

Aragorn turned to face Legolas' way himself. He did not answer, and instead motioned for Glorfindel to join him in the sitting room. His work was all over the place. He sat at some impossibly located space on the floor and motioned for Glorfindel to do the same.

"You are still a mess, Estel," Glorfindel teased him, gently. As many in Imladris had, he helped raise this person into the man he now was. Into the King he had become. "For all that you've accomplished, you still do not know how to handle a sheaf of papers."

"It helps me think," Aragorn said with a jaunty smile. "These are all the things that need doing most immediately. Legolas lets me hide away and work here in his rooms if I do not wish to be found. He is... seldom in them anyway."

"Why not?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Like all the rest of us he'd been drafted into some form of work on repairs and improvements. For rest and reprieve, well - trust a wood-elf to know where to find a tree or two in city of stone. And then at night there are... there are certain directions from which one could get the breezes of the sea. He does not sleep." He tilted his head at Glorfindel thoughtfully, and there was something measuring about his look that reminded Glorfindel of Gimli.

"The one thing that finally convinced him to do so, was when I made mention of you."

Glorfinel's heart sped up, and he felt his mouth turn dry. It was his turn to ask, "You know...?"

"I've known him long," Aragorn said, "and deeply. I treasure him more than I can say. But I must admit – you came as a surprise. We walked together and stood beside each other on very, very dark days on the road to Mordor, you see. We both know to whom precious things ought be sent and letters written on behalf of each other, if the worst should come to pass. I was to write to Thranduil and to you. But I knew long before he said your name. He had no attachment to any material thing, but he asked to be burned or buried with this slip of paper he carried around everywhere."

Glorfindel himself carried the half to that sparse 'letter' on his person. It was on a pocket over his heart, and it felt as if it was burning his skin, in that moment.

Meleth-nin...

"I saw its contents," Aragorn said. "I'd peeled it bloody from his clothes whenever I had need to treat him now and again. You can bet your ears I've wiped it and dried it out on the sun for him a few times, and he'd demand it back at each waking."

Aragorn smiled and continued as he remembered fondly, "I recognized your hand immediately and how could I not? I grew up in Rivendell, and had my knuckles rapped once or twice by tutors disappointed in my consistent failure to emulate it. 'You could be a warrior like hir-nin Glorfindel and still write well if only you applied yourself, Estel.' Your handwriting was the bane of my adolescence. Elrohir and Elladan's too, I understand."

"Apologies about the rapped knuckles," Glotfindel said with a soft smile of his own, and he looked down at the papers about. "I did not know about that. Nor did the punishment work, apparently – these are still quite deplorable."

Aragorn chuckled unapologetically.

"What did you say about me that convinced Legolas to sleep?" Glorfindel asked.

"That you wouldn't want to see him the way that he looked," Aragorn answered.

"I would have him in any incarnation," Glorfindel said fervently.

Aragorn stared at him, and his stormy eyes shone with a wisdom that defied his years. He did not contest it but said, "I needed him to sleep. I merely took advantage of certain sensitivities."

Glorfindel stared at him thoughtfully, waited for him to elaborate.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes and nodded to himself, as if coming to a conclusion. "The calling of the sea has left him feeling... inadequate. He did not want to be seen until he was more himself, not by you nor by his people. Most anyone, really. We expected your traveling party to arrive later, it's how I got him to partake of the draught. He would have been more recovered by the time you got here."

"I rode ahead," Glorfindel said.

"And so here you are," Aragorn exhaled as he leaned back against one of the chairs. "My lord - mellon-nin - I confess I feel somewhat uncertain that I have allowed you in here."

Glorfindel's instinct was to feel indignation. As rightful owner of Legolas' affections, why should he be allowed anywhere when he owned the right? But his years have taught him patience.

Some, he amended, Some patience.

"He does not want to be seen until he is better," said Aragorn, "and my inclination is to follow his lead. It is the least I could do, after all. I brought him to this path. He was always fighting for what was good but he fought on the front of my choosing because I asked it of him. Because I needed him. We would not be here if not for his friendship. But he would not be suffering if not for mine. The price of his loyalty was – is – steep. My burden is lifted, his is just begun. How can I deny what he asks of me now, when it is so simple - that I help him appear well, for those he loves?"

Glorfindel realized then, that Aragorn – who had always been so self-sure in his handling of the elf – was now rendered hesitant by the Sea Calling that he felt was his fault.

"Gimli is of a different school of thought," Aragorn continued. "He said we must not hide our scars from those we love. The right ones will stay, and love that is true is constant."

"His thoughts have merit..."

"But to love is not static," Aragorn argued. "It is not a thing in isolation from the world. One loves someone. If that someone changes, how can love be constant when the object of it has changed..." Aragorn shook his head at himself. "I am sorry. I do not mean to sound as if I was testing you, or challenging your commitment."

But he was, wasn't he? thought Glorfindel. This was the measuring eye Glorfindel had received from Gimli too.

Rumors have been swirling of the camaraderie that had formed amongst the Fellowship, of the kind of friendship it took for them to succeed against all odds. More would be known of their exploits in the coming days, but from these last two conversations, Glorfindel could already see the brotherhood they had forged in fire, and the devotion and protectiveness they had for each other. As surely as Gimli had stood at Gondor's gates and Aragorn at Legolas' door, they were both guarding their brother-in-arms the best way they knew how.

"But the truth is," said Aragorn, "When we are all of us gone – and that time will come as if it were the blink of an eye for an elf – if Legolas is no longer loved for what we inadvertently made him, he will be alone."

Stormy gray eyes watered in grief for this imagined end, and because Aragorn could love Legolas so, Glorfindel could forgive him anything, including his doubts.

"I've already cost him his beloved home," Aragorn said bitterly, "I might be costing him his health and sanity. That his loyalty to me should cost him love too... I cannot bear it, but that is immaterial. More importantly - he does not deserve it."

Glorfindel glanced at the sleeping elf in the room. Legolas was regaining some color, a slight flush on his cheeks. He had such beauty, even in its most impotent form - for unmoving on a bed and dead to the world he was dulled but still so attractive, and this was only the least of him.

"That you are the skilled and dutiful prince of a magnificent land," Glorfindel had once told Legolas, "That you are the fairest I have ever seen of our kin... all of this is nothing compared to the barest light of your soul. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Legolas? You carry with ease that which would make anyone lesser exceptional, for these are only the least of you..."

"He did not want you to see him until he was more himself," Aragorn said into the sudden quiet. "I could not even give him that."

"It wouldn't be the first time he was defied for his own good," Glorfindel murmured. "I've done my share of defiance of his will. He forgives."

"After how long?" Aragorn asked, wryly, knowingly.

"A hundred years give or take."

Aragorn snorted. "Sounds about right." He stared at Glorfindel for a long moment. "Do you know – you haven't even asked me how he has changed that we should worry for him so. You are just so... certain. Maybe the dwarf was right after all."

"He told me to tell you to take his wise counsel more seriously."

Aragorn smiled fondly.

"Love that is true is constant," Glorfindel murmured, echoing the words Gimli had given to Aragorn. "I cannot disagree with this. Legolas will always have it from me. But love is not merely a noun, is it?"

Aragorn groaned good-naturedly. "Ah to be subject once again to all the perfection of the Lord Glorfindel-"

Glorfindel shook his head at the irreverent Estel in amusement. "Indulge me if you are still able, Elessar."

Aragorn snorted at him again, but dutifully quieted.

"It is also a verb," Glorfindel said, "a point of action. One loves someone you said and people may change, yes. But love - as action - is just as dynamic. I would like to think – we can make each other better everyday, we can work to be happy everyday, we can choose each other everyday. Legolas will always have my love. And I will love him in the every day. They are different sentiments, but he is entitled to both."

Aragorn's eyes sparkled, now. They looked like jewels.

"The Lord Glorfindel is too far gone, it seems," he teased. "Elrohir and Elladan wouldn't believe me if I told them."

Glorfindel glanced again at the sleeping elf in the other room.

You will always have my love.

And I will love you in the every day.

"Tell me this though," said Aragorn with a laugh, "How can you be so verbose and not be able to write more than two words on a love letter?"

# # #

Aragorn left Glorfindel – and Legolas' room as a veritable mess – when someone squealed on the King and he was quite politely but insistently drawn out and back to work. It had all the workings of a crafty dwarf's hand about it. Either way, Glorfindel was left alone with Legolas after Aragorn made his exit.

Before he left though, he told Glorfindel, meaningfully: "Take care of him." Gimli, Glorfindel remembered, had said the same.

Time stopped for a breathless moment, and Glorfindel thought all the past and present and the future met at the points marked by Estel's soulful eyes. The moment was now, but familiar as if it had happened before, and also foreboding because it was fated for the future.

There is a saying, of seeing one's life flash before one's eyes... But Glorfindel did not see his own life. He saw the life of Aragorn as if it had already been lived – longer than hoped, beautiful and brilliant and enriching to all around it but in the end, too short.

It was always going to be too short.

Take care of him...

And Glorfindel heard it said for now as well as for the future. He saw his wood-elf lost and forlorn with grief at the death of his friends and Aragorn's in particular. It was his main tether to the earth cut, and he was released unmoored. By that time he would have defied the calling of the Sea on behalf of mortal attachments for so long that the lines that held him were taut to breaking, until they just snapped.

There would be no gentle release.

By the time Legolas left the shores of Arda for the promised haven of the elves, he would have already been so steeped in the Sea that he was sick with it and smelled of it, and his eyes were unseeing glazed with it. He would be the final casualty of the War.

Glorfindel gazed at the sleeping ellon on the bed, looking better indeed for the rest, even with the guarantee of his future misery.

I will love you in the every day, he resolved, more fervently than ever.

Glorfindel touched and brushed back the fine, golden hair, and he ensnared the cold, slack hands in his own.

They've been like this before, he remembered achingly. At the Woodmen Settlement over a century ago, he sat with a severely injured Legolas in wait for him to wake, too. That time, Legolas had been badly hurt yet still had the presence of mind to play possum to take stock of his situation first.

Today, when he stirred at Glorfindel's touch, his mind and soul took longer to respond than his body. His eyes opened but were blank and unseeing, and Glorfindel could swear he saw the Sea in them – they were not glacial blue anymore but swaying and stirring, deeper-hued. Tears streamed from them and Glorfindel felt it, the genuine struggle for the wood-elf's fea to return and align with where his hroa physically was.

Legolas took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, but he was more awake, just gathering himself. He felt scattered, in Glorfindel's senses. Where once Legolas was the gentle but irresistible dawn creeping inevitably up over the night, now he was like a broken mirror, its jagged pieces reflecting and throwing fractured light about everywhere.

"I want..." he murmured sleepily, "So badly... to stay..."

Glorfindel did not even know if Legolas meant he wanted to stay in Arda, or in his dreams of the Sea. He closed his eyes in pain at the other's torn state, but he scooted forward and onto the bed beside Legolas, facing him and curling over him, shielding him, as if Glorfindel could catch all the scattered pieces and keep them from drifting apart and away. Legolas didn't move, barely seemed to recognize Glorfindel was there.

He sought out Legolas' fea determinedly.

The last time they were like this, he had found a seemingly bottomless well down which he threw torches of good memory and affection. What he found this time was a wide expanse of ocean stretching out north, west, east and south, front and back and on both sides, as far as the eye could see.

But even if this was opposite the closed dark well for its sheer boundlessness, it was unnerving and constricting in its own way. There were no markers of land. No fixed points for orientation to aid the senses and tell you where to go and where you've been. Everything was just near/distant horizon, and it was dizzying how sea mirrored the sky – you couldn't even tell up from down.

You weren't just lost here. You lost yourself, here.

"It's not quite like that," Glorfindel murmured gently, "Let me tell you of the Sea." He was uncertain if he said it aloud or thought it, only that somehow, Legolas heard him, and his interest was piqued.

In the imagery in Legolas' mind, Glorfindel added land behind for grounding – Here you have friends who love you. When you leave, you will leave knowing this place was better, just because you once walked and toiled upon it.

In this imagery, Glorfindel added a sun that rose and set, and a moon that forged a shimmering silver path from its reflection on the water. This is the way forward to the haven promised us. You will carry burdens with you when you depart, but I promise there will also be wisdom and peace.

In this imagery, Glorfindel added stars. They shone in the sky and by reflection on the water. Many parts of the journey will feel like flying, Meleth. We will be soaring.

In this imagery, he added a personal fancy. A tall, slim, solitary tower on a rocky islet, flame-lit at the top. Waves crashed mightily against the rocks, but it stood tall and strong. The lighthouse, Glorfindel liked to think, was once pristine white, but had aged and now looked softer. Sea wind-worn but steadfast, it looked like it would stand for all time, to guide all seafarers away from danger.

Legolas sighed, and they both opened glistening eyes. Legolas looked up at Glorfindel curled over him and they gazed at each other's sheer here-ness.

Glorfindel reached forward and wiped the other's tears away, but the gesture defeated itself and only courted more. Legolas' chest heaved up and down with a wracking sob he struggled to stifle. When he failed, he hid his face in his hands and folded forward.

Glorfindel leaned over and shielded Legolas anew, even if he was shielding Legolas from his own eyes. He planted his cheek gently over the top of the golden head, and he waited. He could wait. He could always wait.

"They expect that human to run a country," Legolas said, voice muffled from his lowered face and beneath Glorfindel who held him, "and he couldn't follow a simple set of instructions."

The attempt at humor signaled to Glorfindel he could release the other. He leaned back, and Legolas lifted his tear-streaked face up to look at Glorfindel again. Neither of them acknowledged the weeping this time, and Legolas pulled away and pushed himself up to sit in bed. He turned sideways and leaned one shoulder against the elaborate headboard, so that he could look upon the other elf.

"He couldn't have kept me away even if he tried," Glorfindel told him. "Though I have been tasked by Gloin's son to inform you that this reunion is his doing more than anyone else's."

Legolas snorted, but his face softened quickly with fondness for both dwarf and man.

"I cannot fathom life without them now," he said, and Glorfindel knew there would be little to no case to make here, for an early departure beyond the Sea. But he still had to try.

"You will have to," Glorfindel said gently. "That is the way of things."

"I know," Legolas said. "One would think I'm an old hand at this. I am hardly a stranger to death."

"The calling of the Sea and the thievery of time during peace will complicate things," Glorfindel said. "This is uncharted territory. Can you really watch them die one after the other and continue to ignore the persistent call?"

"I was ready to lose them during the War, I was even willing to do the killing if I had to." Legolas shook his head. "This is... this is winning, believe it or not. I simply cannot leave until they are all lost to me. Time is short enough as it is. I will not cut it shorter myself."

"It is unheard of, Legolas. And perilous."

"I am learning that," said the other elf. "But the converse is unfathomable. I will have them, while I can."

"It will hurt. Very, very badly."

"I will survive it." Legolas looked away. "You know this. I am always the one who lives at the end. It is early still, I can learn. I will learn."

"But what will be left?" Glorfindel asked.

Legolas stared at him, and his eyes watered anew. "That is what I'm afraid of... that the best of me should be lost and none left for you."

"I do not ask for myself," Glorfindel clarified. "I would have even the barest strand of your hair, if you would honor me with it."

Legolas' lips quirked with a tremulous smile.

"I ask for you," Glorfindel said. "What will be left for you?"

"I almost don't care," Legolas answered breathily, bit with a wave of his royal hand. "I just want to sate my heart with those I love. And if you would still have me at the end, I am yours for ever."

"You're already mine for ever," Glorfindel said simply. "I ask for you. And I need you to care, because I do."

Legolas sighed. "At any rate I've already decided. And I've already given my word."

"I spoke with Aragorn," Glorfindel said. "I know for a fact he has released you from it."

"That's not how it works."

"Sure it is," Glorfindel argued. "He owns your promise, he can release you from it."

"You promise to love me but I am unworthy," Legolas said. "I release you from it. Are you really freed? Promises are made not only to those we address, but to ourselves."

Glorfindel frowned in displeasure at the sensible analogy he could not contest, and the sense of unworthiness that he simply had to.

"You are not unworthy, Legolas."

"It was hypothetical," said the other wryly. "Neither are you released or freed of me, if that wasn't clear."

Glorfindel refused to be charmed, even when his heart warmed. He stifled a smile, and played one of his last few cards.

"You father will be very unhappy to see you suffering."

Legolas groaned. "He knows?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "He is beside himself with worry for it."

"He is never beside himself about anything."

"Except things that concern you," Glorfindel pointed out.

Legolas lifted his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs defensively. "I should have been given the right to tell him myself."

"He nearly set off running here when we were told by Lady Galadriel," Glorfindel said. "But you know how the situation remains in your home. Recovery efforts are still underway. He himself is well, save for worrying about you."

"I suppose some time away will help me get my bearings before facing him," Legolas murmured, "It is just as well. Though I must admit – I miss him. I did not think I would be away so long when I set off for Rivendell."

"I bear you a letter from Thranduil," Glorfindel said. He rose from his place on the bed and walked to a nearby table, where he had placed the effects he had with him when he sat by Legolas' bed. He reclaimed the chair and handed the prince a sealed document, indulging in the sweet sight of Legolas unfolding before him, smiling again, and receiving the letter with open, utmost delight. The prince clutched his father's letter to his chest before laying it gently on the bed by his hip.

"Correspondence of personal nature were entrusted to me," Glorfindel revealed. "The rest of your Kingdom's party will arrive soon and issue you the formal missives from your aran, to go with the official reports they mean to present to you on the status of your home. Furthermore, as the Elvenking's representative, I believe you are scheduled to attend foreign affairs and trade briefings with your people, so that you can helm meetings with dignitaries expected to be in attendance for Elessar's wedding. You are tasked with re-establishing political, economic and military ties lost during the War, and perhaps make new ones."

Legolas rubbed a hand over his face wearily. "Thank the gods Aragorn convinced me to sleep. But what I would pay to have a sip of Rossenith's stimulant brew."

He threw aside the blankets, showing he wore nothing but a long, thin sleeping shirt beneath. He then swung his strong legs to the side of the bed where Glorfindel sat and planted bare feet on the ground. Their knees touched. He placed his elbows on them, and rested his chin on his palms as he looked up at Glorfindel with owlish eyes. He blinked himself to better wakefulness, and looked mildly overwhelmed.

"Your adar wanted me to evaluate and ask, privately in all honesty – are you up for all of it?"

Legolas snorted – his expression reminded Glorfindel of Aragorn's, for a moment. "Of course I'm up for it. Oropher built a kingdom and went to war. Thranduil picked up its pieces after becoming an orphan. All that Legolas is tasked with is to sit on his arse."

"You've done a heck of a lot more than that 'til now," Glorfindel pointed out, "and even this new task is hardly a small one. It is kingly work."

Legolas sighed impatiently. "I'm up for it," he snapped, and in profound irritation rose to his feet abruptly to prove his point.

But he swayed. Days of sleeplessness and a scant few hours on one's back under the influence of one of Estel's foul draughts tended to do that. Glorfindel, used to the Rivendell-learned concoction and the stubborn elven warriors usually subject to them, was prepared. He caught the prince with practiced ease.

Legolas dizzily saw the perverse humor in it. He ended up nestled in Glorfindel's sure, strong arms.

"Not the outcome I intended clearly," he murmured with a sleepy smile, "But perhaps a better one."

Glorfindel's arms tightened around him impulsively, reminded again of the depth of the other's tender value. He looked down upon the weary, lined but still fine face, and searched it for signs of other concerning hurts.

But Legolas' gaze took on a sudden clarity. He sniffed at the air and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. In their proximity, he was smelling Glorfindel.

"I know the smell of that poultice," he said, scrambling free of his rescuer in sudden alarm, with a surge of energy powered by his concern. He all but wrestled Glorfindel to sit on the bed, and he settled beside the older warrior heavily upon it while he patted at Glorfindel's clothes in search of the injury that he knew without a shadow of the doubt would be hidden there.

The ancient warlord jerked away from Legolas when the younger elf found the padding of bandages on his left arm, extending from shoulder to elbow. He backed away from Legolas and held him gently, calming, but an arm's length away.

"It is widely used for burns in the Woodland," Legolas said anxiously. "The Battle Under the Trees... I heard there was a lot of fire. You must have gotten burnt..."

"Hardly anyone ever emerges from such things unscathed, Legolas," Glorfindel said. "The wound is old and healing."

It was true, for the most part. He did not say that he nearly lost the limb. He did not say he nearly died before recovering. He did not say that the burn still throbbed at times and that at its worst, had felt so viciously familiar to Glorfindel's tragic history, that he thought his mind would crumble with it.

Legolas stared at him, understanding by instinct perhaps, for he looked threadbare, on edge, unwilling or unable yet to be calmed. His warrior's braids were undone, and he was literally and figuratively disarmed in his thin sleeping clothes. He trembled slightly, and the sea and sleeplessness stirred in his eyes.

His fea was casting fragmented light around everywhere.

Along the length of their conversation, Legolas had displayed both the warrior prince that Glorfindel knew, and the Sea-strained Silvan he was rapidly becoming more acquainted with. Seeing Legolas somewhat... fractured... stung, but Glorfindel had meant what he said:

I would have you in any incarnation...

That you are the skilled and dutiful prince of a magnificent land, that you are the fairest I have ever seen of our kin... all of this is nothing compared to the barest light of your soul. You carry with ease that which would make anyone lesser exceptional, for these are only the least of you...

I would have even the barest strand of your hair, if you would honor me with it.

"I am well," Glorfindel assured him. "I am well and after everything, meleth, somehow against the odds we are both here. This is winning." Glorfindel echoed what Legolas had said earlier. They both knew – all the survivors of great wars carried a myriad of scars.

"This is winning," Legolas agreed softly.

Glorfindel reached forward and touched Legolas' face. The younger elf still stared at him with haunted eyes, but leaned into the touch and only then, calmed. He closed his eyes.

"I can face them, all of them," Legolas murmured. "I just need a moment. I promise you my lord, I won't always be like this. I know it. I will be improved, with time. I am a fast learner."

As he spoke his words created feathery huffs of breath on Glorfindel's palm. They felt like the wings of butterflies.

"I will stand with you anywhere you want to be," Glorfindel found himself promising. "I will not tear you from your mortal attachments any more than I would wish to alter your steadfast heart... for I too, am a beneficiary of its generous loving."

Legolas smiled, and the change in the shape of his face from the expression, Glorfindel felt in his hand too: the prominent, chiseled cheekbone widening and pressing against his skin.

Legolas opened his eyes. "I am in your hands, it seems."

"And I, wrapped about your little finger," Glorfindel said with a laugh.

"You sent me a vision," Legolas said softly, "Just a while ago. The tall tower at the Sea, with the golden flame at the top."

Glorfindel tilted his head at the forest-sheltered Silvan prince. As learned and as experienced as Legolas undoubtedly was, the Sea and its navigation was probably not part of the curriculum there. The calling was too perilous to stir...

"The lighthouse," Glorfindel said.

"Yes," Legolas brightened. "The lighthouse. I was reading up on navigation at Aragorn's expansive libraries here... until he and Gimli caught me, that is. I got a grilling from the dwarf and Aragorn was silent but looked both repentant and anxious and I couldn't stand either of it, so I stopped. That man cannot hide anything, and Gimli does not bother to try..." he shook his head at his friends in fondness, before remembering his original line of thought. "The lighthouse. It reminds me of you."

"Tall and gold-headed."

Legolas chuckled, but looked at him tenderly. "Yes, but strong and sure. And you cannot stop the Seas and the storms, but you will keep me from danger, I know it."

He reached for Glorfindel, touching first his neck – the older elf's pulse jumped there – and then drifting down to his collarbone, and then his chest over his heart. Legolas frowned thoughtfully, feeling the paper there, knowing it for what it was: his cherished, non-letter.

Meleth-nin.

"Aragorn told me you had thrown yours away," Glorfindel teased, with a straight face.

"Of course I have," Legolas matched him, blinking innocently. "Yours is still with you?"

"It will stay with me always," Glorfindel told him, turning serious now. "I will stay with you. Always."

"You will stay with me," Legolas said, with earnest certainty.

The past, the present, the future... they collided again. The moment was now, but familiar as if it had happened before, and also fated for the future...

It was the first thing he had ever said to Glorfindel, he remembered, and said in almost the exact same way. Seemingly a lifetime ago, beneath the then-benighted boughs of Mirkwood, Glorfindel lay dying and alone. But then Legolas came, irrepressible as the dawn, beautiful and insistent, and oh so very sure:

You will stay with me, my Lord Glorfindel.

There is a saying, of seeing one's life flash before one's eyes... and this time, Glorfindel did indeed see his own as if it had already been lived: Legolas was his past, his present, his future – his forever.

You are mine forever.

You are my forever.

"I will stay with you," Glorfindel echoed.

Legolas' stormy gaze settled, and he smiled languidly, and it was the gentle, joyous herald to a bright, new day.

THE END

April 4, 2020

AFTERWORD

I. Acknowledgments

A. MASSIVE THANKS to all the kind reviewers, most of whom are regular reviewers:

3326freespirit, AJS, Alanic, Alexandrion, Alli, AnImaginist, Aqua Fortis, AraneltheSilvan, BBC, Beccissss, Bkcbookworm, cheetahluke, Dragon of East, dreamgoneby, earthdragon, Eaze, emanuelamayrahl, Emjb, firepoppies, ForeverRainingFire, Halatir, HappyCoolios, Hawaiichick, Honoria Granger, Iamsmol, Idrils Scribe, Ingu, Jaya Avendel, Kimic Thranduilion, lastseventh, Makanie, Malleus Beneficarum, Marie, Ninde, Nurayy, NorthKai, Nymiriel, pandorias, power and glory, Rosenthorne (you have an enviably cool name, btw), Ruiniel, SachaSacha, Shenkoyr, Starfox500, SuicidalQueen, Teaabitz, THiaLieN, Tisa-Tisa, Tobiramamara, triolet, Unnamed Element, ValTremblay, Violet, well, wenduo, and of course, all unnamed and unsigned guests.

I will try to do individualized responses within the next few weeks, but for now I would just like to say – thank you for being so generous with your time and thoughts. We are all going through something given the events of our world, so community and kindness are important in all forms we can give and take them. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart thank you, and stay safe!

B. An Important Response to One Unsigned Review: '...clearly English is not your first language.'

The comment left me reeling as few others have in over a decade of writing on this site, and I wish I was given an opportunity to respond privately, but I suppose it is also important to address this publicly.

It's true, English is just one of several languages I'm familiar with. I implore all English-as-second-language folks like me, who may get a review like this not to get discouraged. Fan Fiction is one of the best ways for language improvement; this is why I do not delete old stories or bad comments, even if I find myself cringing sometimes when I look back :)

We are all growing here - as writers, readers, reviewers and as people learning community, productivity and kindness. The comment above, for example, could have been phrased less recklessly (lest it discourage the writer, rather than providing points for improvement). But the reviews won't always be good – and dealing with them is growing up too.

To the unsigned reviewer, good luck on all your endeavors, and I hope the world brings you honest feedback geared toward improvement and delivered with kindness for your own craft (whatever it may be). And I continue to sincerely welcome your reviews on anything I write, if you feel so inclined. I would just request a metaphorically lighter foot on the gas pedal ;)

II. The Next Project

I mentioned taking a break from Fan Fiction to try and make an honest go of my original works, so I might still post a fic here and there (including old ones I've never posted or short new ones), but I do not at this time see myself working on anything as committed as Your Light in the Dark.

This would have been Story #75 (I have a fixation for nice-sounding, round-type numbers), but I abandoned it about 70 pages in:

Working Title: Ghost Town

Summary: Trust and friendship are hard won in times of conflict. Legolas follows his father's advice to seek out Strider and the Rangers, but finds he has to pay his dues first before he can be accepted as a brother-in-arms.

It is a stand-alone "sequel" to the currently posted Misfire (or more accurately Misfire is an intro to it). It is currently several chapters long, but will remain that way for a long time. I began it all the way back in September of last year and have no plans of continuing it for the foreseeable future because it's about a plague – not something I am comfortable writing anymore, what with the new coronavirus ravishing our planet.

The inspiration came from an entry called "The Great Plague" in one of those Tolkien companion books. I open it to random pages every once in a while, and this entry about a virus that went around Middle Earth and decimated many populations was like a prompt that wouldn't release me.

I researched on the topic, and was even more inspired to write after I read about the real-life sacrifices of a Derbyshire village called Eyam in the 1660s. Ravished by plague, they quarantined themselves to save other communities.

Anyways, it will be unfinished for the foreseeable future. Part of Chapter 1 is posted below though, for the curious:

# # #

1: Ghost Town

# # #

It was a once well-trodden path, freshly reclaimed by nature perhaps just in the last year or so. The grass is patchy and thin on a narrow winding way between the thick trees and wilder growths that lined it on its left and right. The path led to an ancient bridge that crossed a narrow, rushing river which marked the boundaries of the small human village of Marksmans Mead.

The Rangers of the North have not been by since the pervious year. There was not much use for them here, because the isolated little homestead needed little defending compared to the other areas of Eriador that demanded their protection. Marksmans Mead, after all, had been named for the aging, sharp-eyed veteran soldiers and their families – including healthy, strapping, well-trained sons - who had founded it. It was a small but self-sustaining community not desirous of the help or company of strangers.

But their sudden, complete silence over the last few months was anomalous and necessitated inspection.

"The population was in decline last we were here," Halbarad, one of the senior-most lieutenants in the current company of 30 men, said from where he rode on his mighty horse beside their Chieftain. He and Strider, as the Chieftain was commonly known, were apparently of the same line of thought.

"It looks perhaps as if the village just died away," Halbarad went on. "It happens."

"I hope that is indeed all there is to this," said Strider. He looked as formidable as the company he commanded, but his gray eyes were particularly heavy with wisdom and burden. "I see no traces of combat that would suggest they were overcome by aggressors."

"The older men must have passed on," Halbarad said with a nod, "and the younger ones off to the cities or the wilds to chase their own fates. If they were in real peril, Strider, they would have found a way to ask aid from us."

The Rangers were of the Dunedain, and as remnants of the great Kingdom that once ruled over the land now-known as Eriador, they continued in their guardianship of the territory in small companies such as that which now currently made its way to Marksmans.

It was a thankless job. Their mandate of protecting their former lands was seldom known and when known, not always well received. Many people were fearful and distrustful of them, including the people of Marksmen who the previous year had told the Rangers they needed no watching and had things well in hand on their own.

Today's visit was just part of the Rangers' efforts to look in on the various communities of Eriador once in a while, especially when reports from their network of scouts and spies indicated anomalous activities. And of Marksmans Mead, the anomaly was indeed a strange one-

No one had been heard from in the small village for months.

The company rode forward at a cautious but leisurely pace, until a wordless signal - made from the very front and passed down along the line of Rangers to where Halbarad and Strider held the rear - bid them to stop.

"Stay here," Strider commanded of Halbarad. "I will see what this is about."

Strider spurred his horse forward, passing the line of men until he reached to where they stopped at the front.

"Your scout called for a halt," said Garthon, the man at the head of the line. There was a wry tone to his voice, a sort of editorial which made Strider wince. The scout at the moment was their latest addition, the elf who went simply by 'Legolas of the Woodland Realm.' Strider's foster brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, however, had taken him into confidence and said this elf was actually the Prince of Mirkwood, apparently sent by his father the Elvenking out for his own time in the wilds.

"The gods know what it is this time," Garthon added with a smirk.

The elf had been their scout before, and was known to steer them this way and that away from some threat or for a better position on an assault. All too often all they had was his word to go by, for in some instances only he could detect the precise position of the enemy. Unfortunately for him, his word was not completely trusted by the company yet. He was new to a group wary and distrustful to begin with, and 'Legolas of the Woodland Realm' helped his cause little by being so reticent with details of his own life.

"Either that wood-elf has the most extraordinary senses in all of Arda," said Garthon, "Or we are all being played for fools, running around in circles like a headless warg. Or your new acquisition has lost his thrice-damned mind and is dragging us all around with him."

Garthon, of course, was of the latter opinion and had been vocal of it. He was highly confident of his own tracking and scouting skills, and was skeptical he would have missed anything that some elf would catch.

"He is from the Woodland, Garthon," Strider said mildly, trying not to let his own skepticism show. He'd had this conversation before with others, ever since the elf joined them a few months past. Not to mention - Strider too was confident of his own skills and was unsure he would have missed things the wood-elf did not.

"They see and hear better, long and constantly besieged by the enemy and so better able to sense them and so on and so forth," Garthon said tiredly. "Tell you what else I know of wood-elves - paranoid as hell."

Strider appeased him with his hands. "I will see what this is about."

"Promptly if you please, Chieftain," Garthon said, "I'm an old man. These bones and this arse are not what they were and Marksmans will have some form of shelter for a rest, methinks. Abandoned or not- a roof over our heads after so long in the wind would be of some relief."

"You know I live to please you," Aragorn murmured. It had the desired effect.

Garthon had the grace to look ashamed. "I am sorry, Strider. There's no good dealing with this tired old man."

"You're not that old," Strider said with a bark of laughter.

He was used to Garthon. The most senior member of their company was a tough customer but once won, would go to the ends of the world with you. The Chieftain spurred his horse a little ways forward and off the weathered road, to where Legolas of the Woodland Realm's unrestrained horse milled about near its master beneath thick foliage.

Strider found the golden elf squatting on the ground, huddled with the dark-haired twins of Imladris over what looked to be a long-dead body leaning against a tree. He winced in dismay and kept his distance. He was hardly the queasy type, but the others had the situation well in hand and messy tasks were things he could always happily yield to his older foster brothers.

The corpse was dry and withered from the sun. But its clothes still had color and not too badly tattered. This death had occurred only within the year.

"This is the cause of death," Elrohir proclaimed, touching the end of a deadfall branch - none of them touched the corpse with their bare hands - to two arrows protruding from the body's back. The shafts were well-made, military grade, not atypical of the output of the soldierly men of Marksmans Mead. The eagle-eyed aim was also not atypical; the dead man was likely on the run and in the cover of the trees, but the hits were fatal.

"He could not have lived more than a few minutes after getting shot," Elrohir continued. He looked over the dead man's shoulder, in the direction of the very village they were about to visit.

"What do you think?" Elladan asked, looking first at his pensive twin, and then at Strider. The Imladris elf was solicitous of Legolas, but not yet in the habit of valuing their new addition's opinion, Strider noted. He could not help but wonder though, if they perhaps should. The corpse was freeze dried out, had no discernable scent, and by now had left no tracks. How Legolas of the Woodland Realm managed to detect him here, off-road over thick foliage, meant either luck or skill indeed.

"Criminal on the run?" Strider surmised.

"But if he was important enough to shoot down, why wouldn't anyone have checked to see if their aim was true?" countered the wood-elf. "There is something more to this."

"Do you think it was murder, Legolas?" asked Elrohir.

Strider had noticed that in the last few weeks - for one reason or another – Elrohir no longer harbored the same reservations Elladan and Strider had in dealing with the Mirkwood Prince. It was quite the reversal for just before that, Elrohir had been not only been wary of the wood-elf, but at points downright antagonistic. Something had happened between them, something Strider was yet to understand.

"I don't know," Legolas said. "But if it were so simple, then someone from the settlement should have come across this body at some point before it got in this state, and had it removed and properly buried. Yet they left it here like this. I believe something larger is amiss, something to do with the village. I just do not know-" he paused, and tilted his head to listen at something or perhaps, nothing. "It is too quiet. This proximity to any settlement would never be so quiet. And there is nothing of the usual scents of life – smoke, food, waste, domesticated animals... nothing."

"Well that is precisely why we are here," said Strider, "to determine why silence has befallen Marksmans Mead."

"Perhaps we shouldn't enter the settlement from the front," Elrohir said thoughtfully.

"I don't know, brother," said Elladan. "One does not sneak up on the men here. If they catch us, we will wear out our welcome or worse, we may get an unintended skirmish in our hands. That is the last thing we want in this particular situation, for they are skilled, they will fight to the death, and we will be handicapped by our restraint. There will almost certainly be bloodshed."

Strider bit his lip in thought. "We'll send a small reconnaissance out toward the village to observe discreetly. The rest of us are to find a defensible spot in the woods beyond their bounds and stand down there until further orders."

"I wish to volunteer for the scouting," said the wood-elf.

"Of course you do," Elrohir said wryly.

"I mean no offense but you will be too... foreign... for the folk here if you should run into anyone," said Strider. "They are distrustful enough, without being suddenly faced with an elf. If you get spotted-"

"That is unlikely," Legolas said with calm certainly.

"Nevertheless you must not underestimate these men," Elrohir advised. "Some are as capable as elves in the defense of their lands, Legolas. And these are hardened soldiers."

The wood-elf was displeased, but was also of a mind to get along better with his new comrades. "If that is your command, Strider. It is your company after all."

"It is," said the young Chieftain with finality.

# # #

# # #

The reconnaissance group comprised of the hardy and older Garthon (who was in a rush to get to the village), a slightly built and fleet-footed young Ranger named Nimmon, and a powerful fighter named Pelamndir, who was mute. They went off the path and took to the trees, to make their way to the side boundaries of Marksmans Mead for intelligence gathering.

In the meantime, the rest of the group settled in at a makeshift camp amid the trees. Legolas and another new member of the group, a young man named Lannor, were assigned the unpopular chore of burying the body that Legolas found, and so they were a ways away from everyone else. They were partly obscured by the trees, but Strider could see from where he sat tending his weapons that they've already moved a tall pile of soil. It was mostly due to Legolas, who was digging with vigor. Lannor helped of course, but would stop often to catch his breath, wipe at the sweat on his face, or gape at his tireless companion.

"For a prince he is remarkably proficient at burying bodies," Halbarad said from beside Strider, who winced. 'Legolas of the Woodland Realm's' real identity was not for wider knowledge.

"And for a group that prides itself on secrecy," Strider commented with a grimace, "someone's been keeping a loose tongue. Who told you?"

Halbarad shrugged; he was not going to answer and he found it irrelevant. "We keep secrets from the world – not from each other. I hope they are doing it properly. They sure are making quick work of that grave. The ground here is quite hard."

"Wood-elves look lithe but they are very strong," Strider said. "I would give Legolas and young Lannor the benefit of the doubt for something that should otherwise matter little to us, except that you distrust him so much."

"All I'm saying is they are making quick work of something that should have been very hard to do," came the cautious reply. "That elf is too good at burying bodies."

"Let's put it this way," Strider said wryly, "Thranduil's folk do not quite come in standard issue for a bunch of elves. You've heard the tales."

Halbarad pressed his lips together grimly. "One more reason to distrust him. But what of it if I should feel this way? I am supposed to. Your line is thin and short, Strider. We are tasked with its maintenance. I am not the only one wary of a stranger's presence among us at this important juncture of your life."

Strider sighed. "We've discussed this many times before." He was weary of defending the lonely wood-elf's position in the company. "From the start he has shown his worth. What does he need to do to prove himself to you?"

"The better question," Halbarad pointed out, "is what does he need to do to prove himself to you. And then we follow, as we always have."

# # #

# # #

They met his arrows first, before they met the wood-elf himself.

The end of a skirmish found the Dunedain victorious, and amongst the orc bodies they were piling to burn, were deaths caused by deep-hued, orange-gold fletched arrows of exquisite make. The men retrieving them for re-use were puzzled for it belonged to none of them.

Strider had suspected they had a silent helper in their midst during the fighting, but was too occupied then to address it while the battle raged. There was someone in the fringes, sending whistling bolts of incredible accuracy around their heads. When the battle was done, he called for this mysterious figure to come forward from hiding. He was met by silence until one of his brothers looked at the shafts, and called for "Legolas of the Woodland Realm" to show his face.

Legolas made an impressive entrance, this golden elf that emerged from the trees as if they parted for him. How he managed such camouflage with his glowing visage, striking hair and powerful figure was beyond any of their knowing. He was tall and lithe, and he cut a dangerous sight with his warrior's braids, battle-worn leathers and scale armor in the shape of cascading leaves. The shafts on the half-empty quiver resting upon his back matched those recovered from the orc corpses, and the leather straps securing them on his person also held sheathed, twin knives.

Strider did not know then that he was a prince, but when he found out later, the blonde's noble bearing made sense. Legolas did not introduce himself as such and for the purposes of security, Elrond's sons followed his lead. It was only later, when the Chieftain and his foster brothers privately deliberated Legolas' request to travel with the company, that Elladan and Elrohir would reveal it.

"Wood-elves seldom venture forth from their Realm, everyone knows this," Strider said. "They are also notoriously sparse with sharing their warriors, and -one would imagine- especially a soldier with skills like this. While I appreciate his aid thus far and have no doubt of his usefulness, I cannot help but wonder at his presence here, so soon after my path has been revealed to me by adar. We cannot just trust anyone."

The twins glanced at each other in that conspirational way of theirs, and Strider sighed at the silent conversation he could by biology play no part in, no matter how inclusive the twins were of their adopted human.

"He isn't just anyone," Elladan said cautiously. "Legolas is the Elvenking's only child. That he should be sent out into the wilds in search of you is a mystery to us also, but perhaps that is something we can discover along the way. Let him ride with us for now, and we will keep an eye on him."

"He makes my back itch," Strider said wryly. "I would hate to be hit by friendly fire, if you get my meaning."

"If that particular wood-elf wanted any of us dead we would be so by now," Elladan pointed out. "But your caution is wise, brother. Worry not. We shall endeavor to keep him well in front of you at all times. At any rate, no matter his motivations, he is unescorted and seemingly troubled besides. I am disinclined to send away Thranduil's only son and heir on his own in this state."

"I concur," Elrohir said easily, "it wouldn't be wise. But let us send word to adar of this most intriguing development as soon as we are able. He will offer us some enlightenment – there will be considerable delay in safely exchanging such messages of course, but one would think the three of us can look after ourselves well enough against a single wood-elf until then."

"I admit I am curious as to the Prince's presence here, myself," Elladan said. "His grandfather Oropher was reckless, his father Thranduil wary and reclusive. Legolas, on the other hand, is an unknown quantity. He is a rare sighting beyond the Woodland, you know, seldom allowed out by his warring duties and his father's reservations about outside engagement. We've met him previously of course – Thranduil relies upon him often for messengering and diplomacy - but he always kept to his people and among them, also seemed reserved." He chuckled self-deprecatingly, "I would keep him around even if only to satisfy my irrepressible Noldor curiosity and pursuit of knowledge."

"At any rate," Elrohir added matter-of-factly, "if we send him away and he gets into trouble, I don't want to be the one to tell the Elvenking we were the last ones to see his only child alive."

# # #

# # #

"The better question is," Halbarad had pointed out, "What does he need to do to prove himself to you? And then we follow, as we always have."

Strider frowned. He'd been wary of having Legolas in their company, of course he had. But he thought he was putting up a good front of having a measure of trust. He'd been pressed into defending Legolas' place repeatedly, after all.

"I trust him enough," Strider murmured thoughtfully.

"He is handy in a fight though, I can give him that," said Halbarad. "Every skirmish since his arrival has been dramatically easier. But he still makes my back itch."

The distinct phrasing was familiar, and Strider realized he'd said it to the twins at some point or other, and perhaps had been heard by the others. He resolved then to do better. As a leader, he was aware he could set the tone, and he did not think it would help them much to isolate the wood-elf prince anymore than he already was as a foreign newcomer to the group.

"Which is why we always keep him in the front," Strider said jokingly, even if it was true. "And you and my brothers always watch out for me."

"It seems as if he'd won the ornery one over, though."

Strider's brows raised at the realization that he was not the only one to notice. He masked his surprise with a chuckle.

"Ah, Elrohir?"

"I thought there was going to be another kinslaying after that incident with Elladan," said the other man, "and yet they found their way through somehow."

"That is because Legolas proved blameless," Aragorn pointed out.

He remembered the incident only too well. Legolas was recovering from injury and out of commission when a battle broke out. He was sidelined, and Elladan soon followed him on the outskirts of the fighting field when the Imladris elf received a grievous arrow wound. They suspected the arrow had nicked an artery, and so they kept the shaft where it was and demanded Elladan keep perfectly still and out of danger until he could be properly treated. The consequence of movement was exsanguination.

But sometime along the course of the fighting, the arrow in Elladan's body was pulled out. At first the blame went to Legolas. Many in the company believed the wood-elf overstepped his eagerness to help and overestimated his healing prowess when he attempted to tend Elladan on his own. The Imladris elf nearly did die and in too many ways, Legolas' own life also fell into danger under Elrohir's murderous anger.

Elladan healed and the truth gradually came to light. The arrow had been pulled out of his body and used to fell a strategically-positioned orc archer who would have killed many in the company. Though it was Legolas who had made the (admittedly exceptional) shot, it was Elladan who had pulled it from his own body - he had endangered himself.

The twins and especially Elrohir have since been quick to emphasize Legolas' innocence. But the incident made a few painful things all too clear: the men had been quick to judge, and they did not trust or value him. And the princely Legolas refused to bother trying to endear himself to ungrateful, suspicious men who found him undependable. The damage had been done.

Halbarad shrugged. "And so he is. But at the end of the day – we still do not know what he wants and why he is here. He has been with us for months now and given away nothing."

"We are all of us here for reasons of our own," Strider said evenly. He knew some of why Legolas was here and it staved back some of his own reservations. The wood-elf had taken injury a few weeks past and was delirious. From his fevered ranting did Strider realize the wood-elf was fleeing a broken heart and strained relations with his father. Strider could readily relate, not that he had ever breached the topic with the wood-elf when Legolas finally healed enough for more lucidity. The knowledge was too intimate between strangers; he doubted the elf even knew he had spoken of his situation, and Strider was content not to broach the subject.

"You do not force anyone here to divulge their reasons, do you?" he pointed out. "Then you should let him share his, in his own time."

Most of the men in the company were there due to their lineage as Dunedain and the duties it carried. He knew some the younger ones sought adventure and heroism. His foster-brothers Elladan and Elrohir were there first for their love of him, but inextricably also to sate some of their bloodlust after the harm brought to their mother some years past. They wished to channel their anger to the productive use of protecting other free peoples and Strider and the Dunedain were all too happy to have them. As for Strider himself, he was there to learn and improve so that one day, he could be both ready, deserving and willing to take on the responsibilities expected of his blood.

"He can probably hear us by the way," Strider said wryly.

"Maybe I mean for him to," Halbarad said tightly, though he did lower voice by a fraction (not that it helps much). "He should know he is being watched carefully. Maybe it will deter him from actions against you."

"I would worry more about Elrohir likely hearing you too," Strider teased. "Ornery elves have great hearing that can parallel that of their wood-elf cousins."

"Damn it all!" the other hissed.

Strider laughed.

# # #

# # #

By the time Legolas and Lannor finished with their gruesome assignment, most of the group was on a cautious move toward the main entry into Marksmans Meade.

The scouting team had returned earlier and reported that they found literally no one. Apparently, the small village had become a ghost town.

Half the company stayed at the temporary camp in the woods as a lookout and to watch the horses, while the other half made their way down the path toward the settlement on foot.

Legolas and Lannor had just concluded the burial of the unknown man when the group started to move. They washed their hands with the contents of their water skins, but Lannor did so hurriedly and half-heartedly, to catch up with the other novices near the head of the procession. He quickly abandoned the wood-elf beside him. Lannor fell into step with his friends easily. They took him into their fold and even offered him a shared drink of water to replace that which he had lost washing. He earned some joshing and pats on the back for his exertions.

Legolas continued to wash his hands as he contemplated his options. He was unsure as to which group he should join – the half proceeding into the empty village, or the half staying behind at camp with the horses. For a long moment he stood on the side of the road as a number of Rangers walked past him, among them the twin sons of Elrond. No one invited him to walk with them, nor told him what to do.

Legolas knew which assignment he wanted of course – he wanted to see what had happened to the village. But the Rangers were walking in a loosely cautious formation that looked familiar to all of them, and he was not certain he could just step forward and walk alongside anyone.

When their young leader Strider came up to follow the others, he noticed Legolas standing uncertainly on the side of the path. Their eyes met, and he stopped walking and motioned for the wood-elf to walk in the space in front of him.

Legolas wasn't sure if Strider did it because he was being gracious, or if it was because – as he had overheard Strider and Halbarad discussing earlier and many times before that – he did not trust Legolas enough to have the wood-elf at his back. Either way, Legolas took the offered space and walked right in front of Strider toward Marksmans Mead.

It was a short road from where they camped, opening up to a small clearing and a riverbank. The water was narrow, relatively shallow and quiet, but swift and so, likely treacherous even with just a little rain. In fair weather, any strong pair of legs would be able to traverse it with little effort, as now. It was winter calm, and so the only problem is that it would be brutally cold. They had no choice at any rate, for the bridge into Marksmans Mead was damaged and could not be crossed.

Legolas watched the men ahead of him step into the water one by one, and land on the opposite bank before disappearing into the trees surrounding the village. He stretched out his senses and there was really seemingly nothing left of the settlement beyond – no sound of speech or movement, no smell of food or human waste or livestock. It wouldn't be the first lost village he'd ever come across in his life or even in the short time since the Rangers allowed him to ride with them in their missions across Eriador. Some populations, especially in these tumultuous times, simply died out as people moved to less dangerous or less remote locations for safety and provisions.

He stepped into the water himself. It was ice cold, seeping quickly past his thin boots and breeches to his skin. He did not have a liking for – not that he had he been offered – the hardier wares of the reclusive, clannish Dunedain that would have given him better protection.

His eyes drifted almost casually upon the broken bridge. It was good, solid, aged and weather-worn stone, built from a thick pack of river rocks and meant to withstand not only the ravages of a swollen river but also the boulders and fallen logs the water almost certainly would have brought downstream with it in stormy weather. It looked like it's withstood the elements for centuries.

There was something odd about it in Legolas' observant eye, and he realized suddenly, why. It would never have been broken down by time, especially if the last known activity from Marksmans Mead was just over the past year.

Someone had intentionally broken the bridge.

When he strained his eyes and looked closer, the jagged marks upon the edges that were broken showed the intentional use of tools.

"Halt!" he hollered, so that the whole company could hear. He'd used a tone he hadn't voiced since he left the Woodland – that of a prince, that of a military commander. He was a stranger here and had determined to try to get along with these reluctant, distrusting people, which included at least some submission to their ways and definitely to play nice with their chain of command. But some situations required immediate action and that was precisely what he got.

The men in front of him, who had already crossed the water and reached the riverbank of Markmans Mead while others had gone even farther toward the village, stopped where they were and fell to warriors' crouches, weapons raised and looking around cautiously.

The men behind him who were yet to step into the water, Strider and Halbarad included, also fell to defensive stances.

"Everyone stay exactly where they are," Legolas ordered, not caring now if he sounded presumptuous, impervious, or out of line. He walked beneath the middle of the broken bridge, right at the break. It was not too high to reach, an easy jump for a seasoned wood-elf accustomed to far greater heights. He levered himself up through the gap in the bridge, and studied the damage upon it. He could tell by the jagged patterns that it had been weakened by pickaxe, and then pounded by dull, heavy hammers until pieces fell to the river below. The damage had been inflicted from the Marksmans Mead side.

The villagers had cut themselves off from the rest of the world.

"What do your elf eyes see now?" came the cautious but also mildly mocking question of Garthon, who was on the side of the village, near the tree line.

Legolas chewed at his lip in anxious thought. The bridge had debris upon it, including branches and rocks that may have washed in sometime in the rainy season of the past year. But he could make out markings that they partially covered on the ground. He kicked the debris away, and felt his heart lurch at what he found beneath. He looked up at their leader, Strider, with some alarm before he could steel his expression. The adan read through him and stepped forward urgently.

"Move no closer," Legolas said again, and his mind raced with how to go about this situation.

Strider was on the other side across the river on the banks from which they came, and Legolas wanted him to stay there. But from the distance between them, he would have to call out to Strider to be heard, which meant the whole company would hear them. He could confide his discovery to the twins who were on the same side of the river as he, but a conference amongst three elves would not be well received in this already restless company. There was, in short, no way to speak of his discovery very privately.

"Oh for the love of the gods, wood-elf!" Elrohir coaxed, "out with it."

'Plague,' he said to one of the Imladris twins in Sindarin. Elrohir's and Elladan's eyes widened, and so did Strider's. 'This village was taken by plague.'

"Must we really have to wait for you to find Westron voice to this new horror of yours whatever it is!" Garthon exclaimed, "Strider, please!"

The Chieftain raised his hand for silence and patience and he was granted it by the older Ranger, at least for the time being. The others around them were getting restless too, but also held their tongues.

'What makes you think so?' he asked the elf in the same language, ensuring that his tone was calm and measured.

'This bridge was intentionally destroyed,' Legolas replied. 'The people of this village had meant to cut themselves off completely. Acts of forceful isolation can only come for a couple reasons- keeping something out or keeping something in. I think they were trying to keep the plague from spreading by discouraging new arrivals. The bridge has markings of plague symbolism as warnings. But the villagers seemed to have taken other measures too – keeping their own people from leaving their boundaries and potentially infecting other lands. I believe the corpse we saw was a villager killed in his attempt to escape.'

Strider grimaced, and Legolas waited for the two Imladris elves to walk toward where he stood, on the Marksmans Mead side of the fractured bridge. Elladan lowered himself to his haunches and put a fist up to his mouth at the grim symbols scrawled in fading red paint on the ground – round dots, cross marks and triangles.

Legolas took the chance to look around them as the twins pondered what they meant. Once he knew what to look for, he found another familiar sign. There was a large flat stone near where the young Ranger Chieftain stood.

"Strider," he called out, and still in Sindarin said, 'That beside you is a boundary stone. There should be holes bored on the sides. If I am correct in my guess, they may still smell of vinegar.'

The man frowned and studied the rock, and found what the wood-elf was referring to. He leaned down at one such hole and sniffed. The traces were minute, but a sour smell did emanate from it.

'What is it used for?' he asked.

'Vinegar is believed to prevent contamination,' explained Legolas. He felt unhappy about his theory of a plague now supported by two evidences, but he was relieved because the boundary stone near Strider and Halbarad meant they and those behind them were likely standing on safe ground.

'The boundary stone is a marker of where it is still safe enough for traveling tradesmen to leave their goods,' Legolas said. 'A town plague-ravished still needs its wares. The tradesmen leave such necessary items in exchange for the vinegar-soaked coins left in the holes as payment. There will be other boundary stones about, I think, but now you have two clues instead of one that I speak the truth.'

"How do you want to play this?" Elrohir asked Strider, in Westron now.

"You have better knowledge of the healing arts than me," Strider pointed out.

"Not of anything like this," Elladan replied. "Illness and plague are not phenomena known to affect our kin and thus, hardly in our expertise."

"Well?" Elrohir looked at Legolas expectantly.

"I've seen measures similar to this before," the wood-elf said quietly. He shifted languages again. 'I was much younger then, but they were hard to forget, and the measures worked to varying degrees of success. In the end though - The Great Plague still took much of the human kingdom of Rhovanion, neighboring to us though we elves proved immune. I think you need to forge a system of quarantine, Strider. All of us who had crossed the river and touched the body have been exposed. We cannot leave here until we are sure we are not infected.'

Thank you for your time. Stay safe and stay at home if you can and 'til the next post!