Author's Note: ... I can't believe this just happened ... those of you still reading, who have waited on this thing for years ... you made this possible. You made this happen. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you, so I thought you probably deserved an ending to this story!

CHAPTER 21: Never Again

Legolas Greenleaf, Lord of the Ithilien elves, stood in the arched doorway of his tree-borne audience chamber and watched the rain patter down into his forest kingdom. It fell steadily, had been falling steadily for three days now. The sound of it was a background rush that filled his head now, seemingly never-ending. Maybe he shouldn't have canceled audiences for today. Maybe he needed the distraction, after all.

He turned away from the dreary outside and sighed.

No. He didn't want to hear anymore reports of the Orcs. Stragglers from the War of the Ring still, yes, unorganized and inefficient, but it seemed they grew bolder by the day, testing his borders, testing his people's strength and resolve. So far they'd been held off, but eventually, and soon, something would have to be done. Something more offensive and drastic then just picking off those who dared venture too close to his trees.

Legolas ambled over to his chair and once more, as he did every time he approached it, rolled his eyes. He'd told the cursed craftsman to build a chair, not a flaming throne. But this monstrosity, high-backed and looming nearly four feet over his own head, intricately carved with his and Ithilien's entire history, was so much more than a chair.

Evan his father's throne hadn't been so lavish.

But there was nothing to be done about it; the damn thing was much too cumbersome and heavy to be removed now.

So, he sat on it.

Day in and day out, performing the duties of a good king, good ruler, good leader.

And all the while the inside of him screamed.

He settled into the overly-large wooden throne and gazed out across the rounded space, back into the rain. The days were getting darker, but he couldn't tell if it was perhaps his own dark thoughts that made them so.

He felt so often that he was only observing, even his own actions. He was trapped in his own mind, his own past, unable to let go or escape. So instead, he acted. He did all he was expected to do. He smiled and bowed, welcomed and farewelled, administered mercy and justice, but none of it seemed to get past the surface.

Inside his own self, there was nothing. Even the despair had faded now, leaving him cold and numb. His father had been right all those years ago.

He was just a shell now.

He was fading.

The constant rushing of the rain on his chamber's thatched roof blended into the other sound –the sound that had become as a part of him as his own heartbeat. It pounded always in his ears, surging and swelling in his very blood.

The sound of the sea.

The sound of the gulls.

They whispered to him, beckoning.

Why didn't he just go? Why did he yet remain?

My people … The thought trailed off, incomplete. Legolas shifted in his chair, a flutter of shame trying hard to break through the numbness. No, that's a lie. You know it. No more lies. Your people deserve better than this. It's a wonder they haven't all deserted you.

Yes, he was through with lying to himself, and to everyone else. This was over, all of it.

It was time to … end.

Legolas stood from his receiving throne and adjusted the deep green velvet of his robes. He still hadn't become accustomed to such garb, it always felt restrictive and heavy. He tucked his hands into the voluminous sleeves, not because he wanted to, just from habit.

He moved around the massive throne slowly, appreciating it perhaps for the first time in all the thirty-seven years he'd sat upon it. It really was a finely-crafted piece. Solid and smooth. All one piece. Structurally sound. And the carvings …

He reached out to touch it, running fingertips across the figurines; the elves, the trees, the battles. The smooth lines of blades and daggers, the sharp points of arrows.

All there. So much history.

So much struggle.

So much loss.

His fingers stopped at a deep fissure in the wood, slightly discolored. He closed his eyes and pulled his hand back. His fingers disappeared into his sleeve again.

The hole on the throne matched the hole in his soul. There had once been an image there, the representation of the woman warrior at the Battle of the Pelennor on her huge black horse, the golden elf-made armor bright as the sun, as the songs now said, and her red cloak like blood.

Laimea.

The craftsman insisted she had a place there, as she had contributed to their eventual victory over Sauron. But for Legolas, the memories were already too much. He couldn't bear to see her face again when he knew she was lost, not even if her features were only carved in wood. He'd ordered the carpenter to burn it off and carve something else there instead, and so it had been done.

And yet the ghost of her erased carving remained, as the ghost of her love haunted every edge of his mind, every beat of his heart, every intake of breath.

The scar on the wood, like the scar inside of him. Covered, but no less gone. No less visible. And he'd lived with that scar for thirty-seven years now … if the past thirty-seven years of his life could be called living.

No more.

Tomorrow, this part of his story was done. He'd done his best, but he was no leader. He was a warrior, a fighter. He was not meant for sitting an overly lavish chair and mitigating tasks, incomes, justice and border scrabbles.

It was time to go at last. He did not think even Valinor held peace for him any longer, but at least there he could finally be free of the constant reminders of what he'd once had … and lost.

Legolas spun on his heel, eyes snapping open.

Decided, then. Tonight would be his last night in Eryn Lasgalen.

He strode back across the wide circular chamber with renewed purpose, eager to put both this scarred life and the scarred throne behind him forever.

He had nearly reached the doorway when a messenger appeared abruptly out of the rain, startling Legolas even despite all his years of stealth training. The elf was drenched, pooling water at his feet as he stared at his king. His expression made Legolas' insides churn.

"Well, what is it?" Legolas demanded at the other elf's apparent muteness. Another Orc attack, most likely, given the paleness of the messenger's face, his slack jaw, his rigid stance.

It took the much younger elf a moment of working his mouth before he found his words. "Apologies, Your Grace –"

"Worry not with formalities, Anarion," Legolas snapped, perhaps too curtly. "I've had enough of that to carry me through another century. Now, what news?"

"Apologies," Anarion sputtered again, shaking his head frantically, "but … there is a visitor –"

"No audiences today. You know this well enough." He brushed past the younger elf and drew up the hood of his robes to shield his head and face from the onslaught of rain. To his uptmost surprise –and annoyance –Anarion followed close behind.

"I know this, Your Grace, yes. But, this visitor is –"

"If they simply must be seen today, take them to Isilion. He is more than capable of handling any grievances –"

"No, Your Grace."

Legolas stopped in the middle of the curving ramp, bringing Anarion up short behind him. He turned stiffly to face the elfling, hands curling into fists beneath his giant sleeves. "You had best hope this visitor of yours is desperately important."

The messenger swallowed visibly at his king's biting tone, but nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. Yes. The visitor … she … she calls herself Laimea, Your Grace. Of Minas Tirith."

Legolas went cold.

"She is demanding to see you, my King. We thought to dismiss her, but … she knows things, Your Grace."

A fire like nothing he had felt before lit in Legolas' chest, a smoldering of rage that took his breath away and tried its best to burn away the hope, the cursed, dreadful hope, that clogged his throat.

"Impossible." The word choked out of him, ragged. How many years had he refused to believe she was dead? He'd journeyed to Minas Tirith himself as soon as he'd healed well enough to travel. Seen her grave. Touched the stone that covered her. Watered it with his tears. She was gone. Forever gone. Out of his reach, gone from this world and the next. "Impossible."

Anarion nodded again. "Yes, Your Grace. But … you are the only one who might truly validate her claims."

"Clearly you have gone mad, elfling," Legolas growled. "There is no claim to validate." He spun away and resumed his march down the ramp, the messenger scurrying to keep up. "Anyone believing such atrocious lies has taken leave of their senses. Show me to this imposter at once. I will make her regret ever stepping foot into my forest."

"Yes, Your Grace," Anarion whispered meekly, slipping past Legolas' elbow to take the lead, his face still unnaturally pale.

They walked quickly through the rain, and with every step Legolas' anger burned hotter. What did this intruder hope to gain by this pretending? Was it some deranged suitor with an ill-begotten plan to become his Queen? Or some enemy wanting to tear open old wounds in the hopes of weakening him? His love for a mortal, and the effect of her death on him, was no secret. A multitude of his fellow elves had disapproved of the relationship, both then and now and all the years between, his Father not the least of them.

There was only one thing he knew for certain about this visitor: she was not Laimea.

She was not.

Could not be.

Impossible.

They had not gone far by the time Legolas heard the shouting. A woman's voice, speaking flawless Elvish. His skin prickled with gooseflesh, and he was glad he no longer carried a bow. He might have planted an arrow in this imposter's back right then.

As it were, Anarion took him to where she stood in the middle of a group of several of his scouts, all with hands on their weapons and looking a mix of distraught, confused, and furious.

"What is the meaning of this?" Legolas boomed as he approached, and the woman startled and whirled to face him. What little remained of his shredded, stubborn hope died at the sight of her.

She was not his Laimea. Even drenched as it was the time he'd pulled her from the Edoras River, Laimea's dark hair had never been that straight. And her face was wrong: the chin too rounded, the cheekbones less pronounced, the eyes too green. But the flash of expression on her face as she saw him made him stop abruptly.

Acute recognition. Agony.

"Legolas!" she blurted. Then she seemed to remember herself and straightened, clearing her throat and attempting, futilely, to smooth her rumpled and stained riding coat. "I –I mean, my Lord Legolas, if I might request a private audience –"

"I think not."

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"My messenger Anarion told me of your absurd claim. I will not waste my time on such nonsense. Tell me the true nature of your business in Eryn Lasgalen or I will have my scouts put you in chains."

She recoiled at the harsh words. Her mouth opened, worked soundlessly for a moment. She glanced around at the elves surrounding her, then shook her head. "My Lord, I do think it might be best if we –"

"Get her out of my sight," Legolas snarled.

"Wait, no, you must listen to me!"

The scouts seized her by the arms.

Legolas turned his glare to Anarion, who shrank beneath his ire, and then stalked away from all of them. This woman's true purpose mattered not. His end had come. Tomorrow he would sail across the sea to Valinor and leave all of this behind.

"Legolas, please! It's me! It's Laimea! Your Laimea!"

The words clawed into his back and stabbed like fire into his heart, but he kept walking. He couldn't stop now, couldn't turn around. Who was she to dare say such things? If he looked at her again now he might kill her outright, and that was not something a respectable king should do.

"You cannot do this, Legolas! Please! I am Laimea! Laimiel of Lothlorien! Daughter of Arminas and Ninquelote!"

He stopped. The air pushed from his lungs in a rush and suddenly the rain soaking through his cloak was like ice against his skin. He turned woodenly to face her again. His body trembled, and he forced the words through a thick throat, "What did you say?"

His voice came out a deadly whisper, hardly louder than the patter of rain all around them. He had never told anyone but Aragorn and Gimli about Laimea's true heritage. He had kept her secret from everyone else, even in the face of his Father's derision. Even in the face of the other elves' disapproval. It had not been his secret to share. It had not mattered in the end, anyway. This woman could not have known … could not have …

"I am Laimiel of Lothlorien," she repeated, struggling in the grip of his scouts, who were now all as pale as Anarion. "Daughter of Arminas and Ninquelote. Known in Gondor as Laimea. It's me, Legolas. Look at me. Look at me and you will know it to be true!"

He looked at her. Looked at her and saw only a stranger.

The fury at her lies pierced as deep and hard as the Orc arrow had that day at the Black Gates. He moved forward with striking speed and pulled the nearest scout's knife from his belt, then went to the woman and caught the back of her neck in one hand, holding the blade to her throat with the other. He loomed over her, face mere inches from hers, and the drip of rain from the seam of his hood ran down her cheek as he held her.

"Explain this sorcery," he ordered through his teeth. "Explain yourself! The truth! Now!"

She stared up at him unblinking, and the sheen of tears in her gaze reflected his own terrible face. Her lips trembled. "I died, Legolas," she whispered. "I died at the Black Gates, but my elf-blood took me to the Halls of Mandos."

His breath caught.

"I thought you were dead. I expected you to be there as well. I chose to remain tied to this world, Legolas, because I wanted to be with you. But you were not in the Halls of Mandos." She blinked the wide, unfamiliar eyes, and her tears mixed with the rain running down over the unfamiliar face. "When I learned you had lived …" She paused and closed her eyes, drawing in a careful breath. "I could not bear the thought of waiting there for you for untold centuries. I decided to be reborn in Valinor, to await your arrival there, instead."

He stepped back abruptly, the knife slipping from nerveless fingers.

"I know you hear the call of the sea, Legolas," she whispered, and around them the other elves shifted on their feet, exchanging looks. "I knew it as soon as I passed beyond this world. I knew you would sail to me eventually if I but waited there long enough." Her eyes searched his face, frantic. "The days of Valinor pass so much more slowly than the days of Middle-Earth. The waiting was agony, Legolas. Agony. Nienna took pity on me and beseeched Manwe to allow me to return here in my new form. To allow me to seek you out, to be reunited with you."

"Blasphemy!" one of the scouts hissed, and he strung his bow with an arrow aimed at the back of her head. "Allow me to put this heretic to rest, my King."

But the woman never took her eyes off of him. "Please Legolas, you must believe me. All this time I have waited for you. I am here because of you. I came back for you."

His breath stilled.

"You promised you would never leave me," she choked out. "And so it was. I saw it. I felt your belief that I still lived, witnessed your fight to resist your song and return to the mortal world. To me."

"Say the word and I shall end her, my Lord!" the scout with the bow said again.

But Legolas only saw the woman in front of him. This stranger who knew things she should not; this human who knew the intimate spiritual workings of the Eldar. "Leave us," he said.

The others hesitated, and the one with the bow did not lower it. "My Lord?"

Legolas turned his gaze away from her only with great effort. "Leave us."

"My Lord, surely you cannot mean to –"

"Speak another word and I shall have you exiled."

The elf snapped his mouth shut. His expression darkened, but he lowered his bow at last and gestured for the others to follow him. He sent Legolas a look that he normally would not have dared, and then the group of them moved off into the trees, and Anarion followed.

Legolas waited a good long moment to be sure they had moved out of the range of hearing. When he tried to speak again, his voice failed him. He stood in the rain and faced the woman, his fists clenching and unclenching beneath his sleeves. The lore masters of the Eldar told stories … stories of those who had passed beyond the mortal world being given the choice to be reborn in Valinor.

He had never known anyone outside of such tales and legends who had actually done such a thing.

She's heard the stories, that is all. She's heard the stories and she is using them to fuel her madness. Your injuries from the Battle at the Black Gates are well known. It is no secret that you almost passed to the Halls of Mandos yourself …

He swallowed hard, the anger warming his core again. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Truly. What can you possibly hope to gain by this deception?"

Her face contorted into anguish. "Legolas, please. It is no deception. It is me. I know I look different, but it is still me. I am still Laimea. And I still love you, Legolas."

He cringed at the words. Shook his head. He shifted his gaze to the depths of the forest over her shoulder, unable to face her any longer. "You … cannot be her. You cannot, and I will not allow you to continue this torment. I don't know what your true purpose is here, but—"

"I first met you on the wall," she blurted. "The wall that fell. At Helm's Deep. And again that night. I surprised you there, and you nearly put an arrow through my eye. Later, you escorted me to my chambers, and I remember the way …" She paused, glanced down to her fidgeting fingers. "I remember the way the torchlight reflected in your golden hair."

Legolas' heartbeat quickened. He remembered that night as well. Remembered the grief of that battle hanging over him like a wet blanket. The first time she'd spoken to him in near perfect Elvish. How the torchlight had flickered in her deep brown eyes as he'd bid her good night.

A strange coldness bloomed in his gut, snaking up into his chest to wrap around his heart. How could she know this? Surely it is not possible …

"You escorted me through the White Mountains and back to my home of Minas Tirith. I saved you from the Orc attack when they had you pinned down, and you pulled me from the Edoras River when otherwise I most surely would have drowned." She stepped toward him, and Legolas could do nothing but stand there, rigid, and stare at her. "We spent many nights in the White Mountains together," she went on, the words pouring out as if she were afraid he'd stop her at any moment. "And we fought together on the Pelannor. I pulled you from a horde of Haradrim and you stopped one's blade from opening my throat. I told you the truth of my ancestry in my home in Minas Tirith, and afterwards …" A hint of a smile played about her lips. "And afterwards I showed you the abandoned guesthouse. We spent the night there. And for the three days before the Battle at the Black Gates, we were at peace."

His mouth opened, but words were utterly beyond him. No one else knew about that night at the guesthouse. No one. An all-too-familiar-ache strangled him, that old stubborn fire.

Hope.

After all of these years and all of his grief, his misery, his loneliness … had the grace of the Valar really brought her back to him? He could scarcely dare to even think it …

"I should have never sent you away, Legolas," the woman whispered, her voice ragged. Tears still gleamed in her eyes, and she took another hesitant step forward. "I'm so sorry I walked away that first night in Minas Tirith. I'm so sorry for the lies that next day. We never should have spent that time apart in such a manner, or any time apart at all. Time is too precious, Legolas. And I want to spend all that I have left in this new life by your side."

He tried to swallow past the fierce emotion clawing around in his chest. He would have suffered watching her walk away from him a thousand times over the grief of knowing she was dead and forever beyond his reach. Their past conflicts meant nothing in the face of living an eternal life without her. If this was her, if she stood before him now, in the flesh, real …

He pulled down his hood despite the rain so he could better see her. So she could fully see his face and the tenuous belief that ached to break free. "Tell me what you said to me when you left that night. If you are her you will know it, and then you will tell me what it means."

She dropped her eyes and for a moment his heart seized. The rain rinsed away her tears as she drew in a deep breath. "I told you I did not like goodbyes. And yet at the time I thought that was all that could save me from further grief." She looked up at him again, and one hand reached out slowly, timidly, to touch the strand of sodden hair resting over his shoulder.

The motion nearly broke him. How often had his Laimea done the same thing? The very first night upon the wall at Helm's Deep … the very night she'd said she would walk away and forget him … when they had slipped inside the abandoned guesthouse and shut the door behind them, just before he'd leaned down and kissed her, finally kissed her …

"I said … I said 'goodbye, my golden elf'. I said murtakk or elgi-u-galaz."

He choked on a sob, falling to his knees in the mud of the forest floor.

But then she was right there with him, his face in her hands, her forehead pressed against his. "No, Legolas, no more," she breathed. "No more goodbyes. Never again. Never, never again."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his lap. Buried his face into her neck. She was real. She was real, warm, alive. Breathing. His Laimea … his Laimea here again, after so many years. A second chance.

He would not waste it.

He would never leave her. Not for anything.

"Never," he whispered into her hair. "Never again."

TO BE CONTINUED ... (one more chapter to go! *gasp* And it's already in-progress!)