“Put your hand on this.” Pharaun held out a wooden wand, curved like a bow, and intricately carved with drow runes.

Wilawen’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“You say you want your friends to be wherever they want to be?”

“Yes.”

“And how am I to know who your friends are?”

Wilawen sighed.

“So put your hand on the wand—lightly! Then close your eyes, and let my words fill your mind…”

…

Ithilien

“Your Majesty,”—the messenger bowed before Aragorn—“Captain Berctuald bids me report that the drow are defeated, sire; those that remain alive are fleeing south.”

“The mercenaries, perhaps,” suggested Legolas.

“Women, my Lord,” replied the messenger, “taking their Queen to safety, the captain believes. The drow men are either dead or—or vanished, your Majesty.”

“Your double, Legolas, can take care of the women,” said Aragorn. He turned back to the messenger. “Tell Captain Berctuald to make a thorough search of the Forest. Any survivors are to be brought to Caras Arnen—when we have freed the City they will be allowed to slither back through the rocks they came from—before we stop up the cracks for good. The dead,” he added, “are to be burned, like Orcs.”

“At once, your Majesty.” The messenger set off at the gallop.

Aragorn turned to Legolas. “You will ride north with me?”

“Of course.”

The King called for another messenger. “Take word to Princess Eowyn,” he said. “We will fall back to her stronghold in the hills to prepare for the final attack—”

A sudden noise—quiet at first, but rapidly growing louder—cut him short, and he turned to face it. Something was rushing through the forest towards them; something big enough to shake the trees as it passed.

“Scatter,” roared Aragorn, “SCATTERRR!”

Then the trees parted—and a river of thick, inky darkness burst through the gap.

The men shouted in horror, riders spurring their terrified horses, footsoldiers running. Aragorn, calm amidst the chaos, struggled to hold his mount in check, watching the wave of blackness flow harmlessly between his warriors and sweep towards the elf and the woman beside him.

Aragorn heard Eowyn cry out as the darkness splashed up her body, and he leaped from his horse and ran to help her. Legolas—already covered from head to foot—was with her, trying to pull her clear. But, even as Aragorn approached them, he could see that the stuff was solidifying, and—despite his attempts to tear it away—he was forced to watch it shape itself, shrinking here, thickening there, quickly forming itself into a dark being, with arms and legs and a crudely shaped head, and a pair of massive, bat-like wings, sprouting from its shoulders.

Then—grasping its prisoners tightly—the creature took flight.

“NO,” cried Aragorn, “Legolas! Eowyn!”

…

“Gimli!” roared Berkin, lunging for the dwarf. But his hands missed his friend’s kicking feet, and closed on empty air.

…

Further south

Shadow Eowyn galloped through the Forest, scanning the company of elves for something that would explain the anxiety she was feeling for the father of her child.

She knew that it had nothing to do with the neat line of elven dead lying upon the ground, nor with the elven wounded awaiting the attention of the healers, nor with the gaggle of drow prisoners chained between the trees.

It was something else.

She saw Captain Golradir emerging from a thicket to the north and, dismounting, ran over to him. “Where is Prince Legolas?”

The elf shook his head.

“What is wrong, Golradir?” Lord Fingolfin—who, since Drago’s death, had remained faithfully at Eowyn’s side—laid a hand upon the March Warden’s arm. “What has happened, mellon nín?”

“It took him.”

“What took him?”

“I think… It was darkness. Just darkness.”

Eowyn glanced at Fingolfin. The elf shook his head. “Show us, captain!” she said.

Golradir gestured towards the thicket. “I tried to stop it. But it was no use.”

“Master Elerossë,” shouted Fingolfin to one of the healers, “take care of the March Warden—my Lady, wait!”

But Eowyn had already run into the trees.

…

Minas Tirith

“What is happening?” cried Wilawen.

Pharaun stepped nimbly aside. “Best to keep your mouth closed,” he advised her, as the darkness reached her face. “It will all be over in a moment.” More cries of alarm came from outside, and he turned towards the shop door, shouting, “I said: keep your mouths closed!”

“What will all be over?” Wilawen scraped away a handful of inky fluid. “What have you done to us?”

“Exactly what you asked,” replied Pharaun. “It is quite harmless, and I know of no more efficient way to move a body from one place to another—oh—oh, Llolth,”—he backed against the wall, staring down at the blackness rising up his own long legs—“surely not!”

He felt Eowyn’s fingers move in response to his caress, and he turned to her with a reassuring smile.

Her eyes were bright with tears. “Look, Lassui,” she said, nodding at something lying far below them.

Legolas looked.

They were hovering over a bedchamber—little Meldon’s, he quickly realised—and, as they gazed, the chamber door opened and the elfling, with a squeal of joy, leaped from his bed and ran towards an unseen visitor.

Legolas smiled, but there were tears in his eyes, too. “He is safe, melmenya,” he whispered, gently. “Safe and happy. He does not need us now.”

“I know,” she answered, bravely.

At once, the vision faded; and then they were looking down, through the boughs of a mighty Carantaur, upon a small, open flet, with a table and chairs at its centre, and pots of fragrant flowers arranged around, and a romantic, canopied bed tucked in a corner.

“Our garden,” said Legolas.

“Our home,” said Eowyn. She wiped her eyes. “Do you think that it is still safe, Lassui? What if the drow have invaded our world, too?” And, as she spoke, the shadow-creature descended through the red trees, and set them down in a clearing. “Where are we?”

“I think,” said Legolas, crouching amidst the undergrowth and examining the trampled ground beneath, “that we are where it all started, melmenya: in Eryn Laeg, close to where the bodies were found—yes—listen.”

Behind them, unnoticed, the shadow-creature was dissolving into nothing.

“I cannot hear anything,” said Eowyn, but her hand automatically reached for her sword.

The elf smiled up at her. “Border guards, melmenya,” he said. “Nibenon and Eruvelui, if I am not mistaken—in the trees, over there.”

…

Minas Tirith

Shadow Legolas reached for the door latch. He did not know why he was standing in a corridor in Minas Tirith; he was not sure what was inside the chamber; but his heart told him to open the door…

He did.

There was a cry of surprise, then a long wail of delight—“Adaaaaaa!”—and a tiny blond elfling scrambled from his bed, and flew into his arms.

Legolas lifted his little son onto his shoulder, and held him tightly, burying his face in the boy’s soft, pale hair. He smelled of fresh, green leaves.

“Where is Nana?” asked the child.

“Nana?” Legolas sniffed back his tears. “I do not know ion nín,”—his voice wavered—“but we will find her, and we will take her home to live with us.” He felt the child relax against him, and he smiled.

Then, “Can Eldarion come and live with us, too?” asked Meldon. “And Nana Arwen?”

…

Shadow Eowyn turned to Lord Fingolfin. “I must go through that door, my Lord,” she said. “There is something in there that I must see.”

She lifted the door latch and pushed open the door.

From inside the chamber, Fingolfin heard a sharp intake of breath, then a child’s voice, crying, “Nana! Nana!”

“I will wait out here,” he said, smiling.

…

“You have found him,” said Eowyn, softly.

Legolas, still hugging little Meldon, turned to face her. “Something brought me to him, Eowyn,” he said. “Something that means us to be together—the three of us—as a family.”

“And what of Ala—” She stopped short, partly in response to Legolas’ warning frown but also because her own maternal instincts had suddenly asserted themselves.

“You must know,” said Legolas, carefully, “that that no longer stands between us. Meldon is coming home with me, and we want you to come with us.”

Eowyn shook her head. “I must return to Emyn Arnen,” she said. “When my duty is done, and my people are safely back in the City on the Hills,”—she smiled at the little elfling—“when your mummy has done what she must do, Meldon, she will come and see you,”—she looked at Legolas—“and we will talk.”

She turned to leave.

“Eowyn,” said Legolas, gently but firmly, “come here. Come and hold your son.”

…

Middle-earth
Eryn Carantaur

Legolas and Eowyn were escorted into Orodreth’s encampment.

“My Lord,” said the Mirkwood elf, greeting his commander with a formal bow, “I was told that you had gone into the Aelvorn, to rescue Lady Eowyn.”

“I did,” said Legolas. “And that tells me that we are home.” He smiled at Eowyn.

Orodreth gave him a brief report. “There has been no sign of the dark people since that second attack,” he explained. “And all but the March Warden, the boy from Newhome, and Mistress Wilawen have been returned.”

“Haldir died in the caves, Legolas,” said Orophin, suddenly. “He drowned, trying to save the boy.”

“No,” cried Eowyn. “No, Orophin! We have seen Haldir since he escaped from the caves. He is alive!”

…

Minas Tirith

Floating above Meldon’s bedchamber, Haldir gazed down at the small family—Eowyn hugging her little son, shadow Legolas standing beside them, tears streaming down his fair face.

The big elf’s heart was torn with conflicting emotions, for—though he would have served her faithfully and, in time, a deep, true love might have blossomed between them—Eowyn was reunited with her child, and he would no longer have to choose between the shadow and her double—

“Come on,” said an annoying voice, “think of something else.”

Haldir glared at the boy hanging beside him. “What do you mean?”

“It is as Mistress Wilawen said,” said Arador. “This—thing,”—he jerked his head over his shoulder at the shadow-creature that held them—“will take us wherever we want to go. So think of something else.”

“What about you,” countered Haldir, angrily, “have you nowhere to go?”

“My parents’ house? No, thank you.” The vision of Eowyn and her son suddenly changed to one of a sparse forest, choked with fallen trees and backed by a line of jagged rocks. “I will come to the colony with you. I have developed a taste for adventure.”

“No, absolutely not,” said Haldir; but they were already approaching the ground. “Your parents would flay me alive.”

“I have already been missing for—what—a week?” Arador’s feet touched the grass. “So, if my father is in a flaying mood, you are already doomed. But Prince Legolas will soon talk him round.”

“Legolas will send you straight back home,” said Haldir.

“We will see.”

…

Middle-earth
Eryn Carantaur

“There he is! Haldir!” Eowyn ran to the big elf.

Haldir caught her hands and raised them to his lips. “Eowyn! You are safe and sound!” He turned to her husband. “Legolas!”

His friend embraced him, human-fashion. “It is good to see you, too, March Warden.”

“Is Wilawen here?”

“Wilawen?” Legolas looked from the March Warden to Orodreth and back again. “Was she with you?”

“Yes—in Minas Tirith. It was she who arranged our escape.” He explained the bargain the woman had made with the drow Mage. “It seems he did not keep his word,” said Haldir, looking around. “I knew that he was reluctant to let her go.”

“But, even if he has sent her back,” said Arador, suddenly, “she will not be here. Do you not remember what she said?”

“Master Arador wants to join the colony,” said the March Warden.

“Yes, sir—I am a scholar,” said the boy to Legolas, bowing slightly. “I work hard and learn quickly. I am sure that I can earn my keep.”

Legolas smiled. “We will see what your father says,” he said, holding up a hand when Arador tried to protest. “But tell us,” he added, “where will we find Mistress Wilawen?”

The boy shrugged. “With Valandil, wherever he is.”

…

Lying in the haven of the healing tent, Valandil snatched a sudden breath, opened his eyes, and smiled up at the woman who was quietly watching over him. “Good morning, Faer Vara,” he muttered.

Wilawen laughed. “It is the middle of the afternoon, as near as I can tell,” she said, “but that does not matter,”—she grasped his hand and raised it to her cheek—“because we are both safe, my love, and we are together, at last. That is all that matters.”

The elf stretched out his fingers, and gently caught the tear running down her face.

…

“Legolaaas!” Hentmirë crashed to the ground.

“Gwendithen!” The elf bounded over to her, lifted her into his arms and hugged her tightly. “Thank the Valar that you are back too! Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

Legolas looked around, suddenly. “Is there any sign of Gimli?”

…

The Grey Havens

Soaring high over Mithlond, Gimli, shielding his eyes from the evening sun, stared into the West.

“Time I went home,” he sighed.

He thought of the Glittering Caves, of their ‘gems and crystals and veins of precious ore’; of the light glowing ‘through folded marbles’; of the ‘columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose’.

Then he thought of Legolas and Eowyn, of the March Warden and of little Hentmirë, and of evenings spent merrily, before a cheery fire…

…

“Gimli!”

“Put me down, you crazy elf!”

…

Southern Mirkwood

Berryn son of Hador watched the girl with the red-gold hair wrap her mantle around her shoulders, pick up her basket of bread, cheese, and other comforts for the poor, and leave her father’s mead hall, followed by her faithful servant.

Something told him that, were he to say the word, the shadow-creature would set him down beside her.

But, no, he thought. I made Gunnhildr a promise; and I will keep it.

…

The Underdark

Deep in the tunnels surrounding Menzoberranzan, Drizzt Do’Urden set an onyx figurine on the ground, and called to Guenhwyvar.

Sometime soon, he would have to deal with the second statuette.

He could not destroy it, for he had no idea what that might do to the cat; but nor could he let it fall into unscrupulous hands. He would have to find somewhere to hide it—somewhere where it would never be found.

“Come, Guenhwyvar,” he said, “we have the Dark Dominion to patrol.” He slipped the first figurine back into his pouch, his fingers brushed against something cold and hard—the coin that Wilawen had given him as a keepsake—and he smiled, fondly.

…

Pharaun Mizzrym folded back his elegant cuffs.

One of her friends! Who would have thought it?

Despite the magical energy it had taken to power Wilawen’s relocation spell, the Mage did not feel tired at all—rather, infused with excitement. He lit the candles on his desk, extracted a folded handkerchief from one of his pockets, and opened it. A dozen pale brown hairs lay shining on the black fabric. Smiling, he removed six and laid them on his desk. Then he refolded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket—if he took the extra half-dozen hairs down to the Bazaar, and sold them to the right people, he would make more than enough money to pay off his tailor, his wine merchant, and to purchase a few exotic supplies besides…

From the chosen six hairs, he separated five, coiled them, and popped them into a glass storage jar.

Now I must be quick, he thought, taking up the remaining hair, in case she changes her mind. He wound the filament around his little finger, knotted it, and set it aside. Then he selected a lump of soft, pinkish-white wax and, with all the dexterity that had made him one of the most capable Wizards in Menzoberranzan, he fashioned a tiny female figure.

It took three days of bitter, hand-to-hand fighting for the combined forces of Gondor, led by Aragorn, Eowyn and Legolas, to recapture Caras Arnen; and, even then, the drow forces might have held out longer had Eomer King not galloped to his sister’s aid towards the evening of the third day.

True to his word, Aragorn allowed the survivors to return, through the rocks, to their homeland in the Underdark.

Then, at Eowyn’s suggestion, and with the help of Gimli’s dwarves, the walls and pavements of the City on the Hills were permanently secured—lined with fresh stone quarried from the gorge to the south of Emyn Arnen—the stone that had kept the people of Ithilien safe throughout weeks of siege.

…

Two months later

Turning off the main walkway, Legolas went quickly down the quiet path until, well-concealed by thick red foliage, he reached a narrow flight of stairs, and climbed up.

He had chosen the dwelling because it was small and isolated and, most of all, pretty, with a tiny, walled garden, where she might sit beneath the trees. He had even had a swing built for her.

He tapped lightly at the door, and it was opened by an elderly elleth.

“How is she, Mistress?” he asked.

“Quieter today, my Lord.”

“May I see her?”

“I do not think that would be fair to her, my Lord.”

“No… No, I do understand, Mistress. But I—”

“Legolas Greenleaf!” From inside the house, a plaintive voice called out, “Have you come for me, Legolas Greenleaf? Is today the day?”

“Oh, sweet Eru!”

“Please, sir,” said the elleth, gently pushing Legolas back through the door. “I must see to her.”

“Of course, Mistress. Take good care of her…” He turned to leave.

But the elleth caught his arm. “If I may say so, sir,” she whispered, urgently, “this place—though it is lovely—is not right for her. Send her to the prison house at Doro Lanthron—”

“The prison house!”

“To be with her father, sir. I know you believe that he is responsible for her present state and, in part, I agree; but he does love her, sir, for all his faults; and he is the only person she cares for, excepting yourself. I honestly believe that his company is the only thing that can bring her peace now.”

Legolas patted her hand. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said, “for opening my eyes. Yes. I shall do as you ask.”

…

Sitting at the dressing table, in the bedchamber she would soon be sharing with Legolas, Eowyn lifted a small silver clasp from her jewel box. She had found it beside her camp bed, shortly after Haldir had left for Minas Tirith, and had kept it safe.

“Farewell,” she whispered, fingering it fondly, “may you find the love you deserve—and may you sometimes remember me with affection.”

There was a brisk knock at the door and, recognising it, Eowyn smiled. She put the clasp back into the box, together with the ring that Faramir had given her, all those years ago. “Come in, Eomer.”

“Are you ready?” asked her brother.

“Yes.” She rose, turned to face him, and laughed. “I never thought to see you in silken robes.”

“Legolas insisted,” said Eomer.

“He was right. You look—almost—tame.”

“Eowyn, are you sure about this?”

“Yes; I am very sure.”

“Even though…” He waved his hand, but she knew what he meant.

“Even though I will age and he will not? Even though I will die and he will sail to Valinor? Yes, Eomer. He has proved himself, and won my love and trust. He is the father of my child, and he is about to make me an honest woman.” Eomer held out his arm and she took it. “Have you forgiven us?”

“Forgiven him, you mean?” Eomer shrugged. “Would it really matter if I had not?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Yes, it would, to me. ”

Eomer said nothing, but gently laid his hand upon hers. Then, “Come,” he said, leading her towards the door, “it must be time. Er—do you know the way?”

“The way?” Eowyn laughed. “Yes!”

“Good, because I find this place—”

Berengar appeared in the doorway. “My lady,” said the faithful secretary, breathlessly, “you—gods, you look beautiful but, please, hurry—you are late, and everyone is already waiting. King Thranduil’s face looks like thunder.”

…

“Make your vow, ion nín,” said the Elvenking.

Legolas slipped his ring onto Eowyn’s finger. “Im hervenn chîn; no hervess nín.” He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it.

“Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, make your vow.”

“I am your wife,” said Eowyn. “Be my husband.”

“An-uir,” said Legolas. Forever.

“Grand-Adar,” shouted a small but very loud voice, proudly, “that is my Nana and Ada.”

And everyone, even King Thranduil, laughed heartily.

…

wrote Lord Fingolfin.

Fingolfin scratched out the final sentence, and laid down his pen.

The future of the colony was assured. Of his own foolish fondness for the new Lady of Eryn Carantaur, he would write nothing.

Middle-earth
Eryn Carantaur

“A gold piece for your thoughts, melmenya,” said Legolas, softly.

Eowyn shifted in his arms. “I was thinking,” she said, “of little Meldon.”

Legolas pulled her closer, and kissed the crown of her head.

“It is just—I wanted so much to say goodbye to him, Lassui, and I never got the chance.”

“I know, my darling.” He kissed her again. “I know.”

The pain would pass—soon, if the Valar blessed them with a child of their own—but the waiting would be harder for her, and so he resolved to keep her safe, and to make sure that she was given the time and the space to grieve however she must.

“Legolas?”

He sensed her mind, hesitantly trying to join with his, and he opened himself to her, and let her share his thoughts.

And, suddenly, she slid her little hand over his chest, and her leg over his hips and, hugging him with all her strength, she whispered, fiercely, “I love you, Lassui! I love you! Do not think that this foolish desire for a child could ever come between us!”

And then she kissed him; and, later, when she grasped him, and guided him inside herself, he felt her overwhelming love for him, and he knew that she was telling him the truth.