Eowyn found him lying on his back in the long grass, looking—in the moonlight—like one of the statues she had seen upon the tombs in the House of the Stewards, his body deathly still, his skin marble-white, his eyes empty…

Frantic, she fell to her knees, examined him for signs of injury and, finding none, shook him. “Legolas?

He did not stir.

She shook him harder.

Still, he did not wake.

She ripped open his tunic—scarcely noticing that its fastenings were already missing—and, laying her head upon his chest, she listened for his heart. “Oh, thank the gods!” she sobbed.

His heart was beating—slowly, softly—but beating!

She raised her head, and cried out, “Help! Please! Somebody help!” But there was no one close enough to hear her, except, “Arod,” she shouted, “Arod, come to me; come for your master!”

Moments later, the horse was by her side.

“Find elves,” she said. “Find elves, and bring them here.”

When the border guards arrived, they found her—still listening to the beat of Legolas’ heart—singing softly to him of the deeds of her ancestors. Two of them improvised a stretcher, and carried their Lord back to the city; their leader lifted Eowyn into his arms, and followed.




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A living death.

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