A/N: I honestly have no idea how this happened. A month ago I wasn't intending to break into a brand-new fandom...heck, I wasn't even all that interested in Lord of the Rings - now it's all I've been thinking about! I blame the Battle of Five Armies for this - thanks to watching that in the cinema, I got the urge to rewatch the LOTR trilogy, and from there I got the urge to reread the books, and from THERE...you get the idea.

So, this oneshot is the end result of all that LOTR obsession - and it's a fantastic whopper of a oneshot, too. I know it's long, I'm sorry - I tried to divide it into chapters, but having it that way really kills the flow of the story, so I left it as a oneshot. It is by far the longest oneshot I have ever written...and this author's note is...making it longer. Oops.

Okay, there's just one or two important things you need to know, and then we're done here, I promise. One: this mostly follows book canon, with the exception of a few movie events. Two: first LOTR fanfic equals first time using Elvish, so I apologise for any grammatical or spelling inaccuracies - I did the best I could with online translators.

Okay, that's it from me. Enjoy!

The Gift of Men

When I was very young, I did not understand why the birds and beasts of my fair Greenwood would at some point in their lives cease to breathe, and grow still forever more. Nor did I understand when, at the age of seventy, I witnessed the death of a mighty tree for the first time. I did not know why these creatures did not simply continue to live, as we did. Adar had to explain to me that this was a natural occurrence of all living things, and that we alone, as Elves, were spared the mortal doom.

'It is our fate to be the immortal beings of Arda,' he said to me, 'to walk this realm and remember what has passed millennia before while the world shifts and changes around us.'

'But, Ada,' I said, 'why can not everyone share this immortality? It is such a cruel fate for mortals to die after such a short span of life, never to see each other again. Why are we the only ones who receive this gift?'

I was utterly sincere, but Adar did not smile; instead — though his face remained smooth — his eyes grew sad, and he told me, 'One day, iôn-nin, you will understand.'

The decades passed and I grew, and as I matured I learned more about Arda — Middle-earth, as it is termed in the common tongue — and I gradually came to understand that my people and I were of the Eldar race, the Firstborn, blessed with immortal grace because Eru favoured us so. When I understood this, I felt great pity for the mortals who were doomed to die.

What I still did not understand, however, was why my kin — particularly those of great years — did not share my pity.

'Do not feel sorry for them, Legolas,' they said to me. 'Eru granted them the Gift of Men.'

'Why is it called a gift?' I asked curiously. 'Is it not the saddest thing, that they should all perish while we are allowed to live on?'

They never gave me a satisfactory answer, and so I was left to wonder, and ponder on this so-called Gift of Men.

Early in my third century, the shadow began to creep through Greenwood, a darkness of a like I had never known before. With its arrival came another harsh lesson for my young and inexperienced self: that even Elves, though immortal, are not immune to death. I was two hundred and thirty-six when my mother died.

It was a horrific shock. I wailed and mourned and spilled many tears for many days, and being the impetuous elfling I was, I vowed revenge against the Shadow whose malevolent influence had brought out the dark creatures that killed her. Adar was wise enough to stop me before I could join Nana in Mandos' halls, but I remained inconsolable with grief.

'I thought we were immortal,' I sobbed to him. 'We are not supposed to die!'

'No,' said Adar, 'but even the mightiest of our kind can be brought down by an arrow or a sword. But while mortals have the Gift of Men, the Eldar may reunite with our departed ones one day.'

'How?'

'Elves will not stay in Arda forever, Legolas. There will come a time when we will all set sail over the Sea, to Valinor — some may sail even before our dominion ends — and there you will see your naneth again.'

Adar's words gave me hope. All was not lost; I would see Nana again, because Eru had blessed us with immortality and a place in the Undying Lands where our souls could flee even if we were struck down. I held on to this knowledge as I grew older, as I learned to use a bow and trained to kill the fell creatures who were invading our beloved Greenwood. Elves achieve their majority at ten centuries of age, but I was nearly four decades shy of this when I became captain of the archers. It was through no privilege of my birth or test of my father's that I obtained this post; it was a necessity. All those of Greenwood — Mirkwood, we were now called, because of the darkness enroaching upon our borders — were compelled to become warriors and fighters, for the sake of our survival and the protection of our woods. I spent centuries fighting against the Necromancer's shadow, and I watched with an increasingly heavy heart as elf after elf was struck down by the evil that threatened us. The only thing that lightened my burden of sorrow was the knowledge that I would see every single one of my fallen warriors again; we would meet on the shores of Valinor and thereafter live in happiness, truly immortal.

Even as this thought gave me hope, I carried pity in my heart for the mortals who lived beyond our woods, for they would not have this blessing.

Adar: Father.
Ada: Informal form of Adar.
Iôn-nin: My son.
Naneth: Mother.
Nana: Informal form of Naneth.

I am well past my second millennium by the time I meet the first mortal I will come to befriend. He is a child, a mere four years of age — an infant in the eyes of Elves. Four-year-old elflings are barely able to comprehend their surroundings; they may speak, but their words are nonsensical and difficult to follow. Adar tells me I was particularly incoherent at that age. Yet I am told — by Lord Elrond, no less! — that for a human, four is a suitable age at which to begin their education. Certainly this boy before me is fully capable of carrying on a conversation, and there is a keen intelligence to his grey-blue eyes that even I, with my limited knowledge of mortals, suspect is not common to all of his race.

'Who are you?' he demands when I happen across him in the gardens. It takes me a shamefully long time to answer, such is my astonishment at finding a human child in the halls of Imladris.

'I am known as Legolas,' I reply to him, smiling. 'And who might you be, young one?'

'My name is Estel.'

'Estel?' My eyebrow quirks upward, but I sense this is not the time to question him about his name. 'And how came you to Rivendell, Estel?'

'I live here,' he answers.

'Indeed?' I am truly intrigued, but I did come here with a purpose, after all. 'Then perhaps you can tell me where Lord Elrond's sons might be found?' I have been searching without avail for those irascible elves for the better part of the morning. Trust them to vanish when I have need to speak with them; would that I could simply approach Lord Elrond — who is far easier to locate — without having to hunt for those brigands!

'My brothers are hiding in the kitchens,' Estel replies, and I sigh. Capable of conversation or not, it appears four is just as haphazard an age for humans as it is for elves, if the way Estel has veered off topic is any indication.

'If I see them, I will be sure to extend my greetings,' I respond politely. 'It was a pleasure to meet you, Estel, but I'm afraid I must continue my search for Elrond's sons.'

The child gives me an odd look. 'I've already told you my brothers are in the kitchens.'

'Indeed you have,' I say patiently, 'but I am looking for Elladan and Elrohir.'

'Yes, I know,' says Estel, still puzzled. 'They are both in the kitchens.'

I am confused. 'They are with your brothers?'

Now Estel, too, looks confused. 'No,' he replies slowly. 'They are my brothers.'

The child is making no sense, and I am beginning to wonder how I might extricate myself from this bizarre conversation. If this is in any way as peculiar as the manner in which I spoke at four years I pity Adar.

'Come,' Estel says then, extending one small hand to me. 'I will take you to them.' I deliberate for only a moment before I accept his offer. This might derail my search momentarily, but perhaps Elladan and Elrohir are in the kitchens; and even if they are not, hopefully I can entrust Estel to his older brothers (I assume they are older) — it has crossed my mind that a child this young and this prone to speaking strange things ought not to be wandering Imladris unattended.

Instead, I am surprised once again by this human child, for Estel leads me unerringly and purposefully to the airy kitchens of the House of Elrond, and here indeed are Elladan and Elrohir, pestering the cooks for pastries and sweet things.

Elrohir notices me first, and waves merrily. 'Legolas! Mae govannen, mellon-nin.'

'Mae govannen, Elrohir, Elladan,' I greet in return. Estel slips his hand from my grasp to make his way to the twins.

'Ah!' says Elladan, 'I see you've met the newest addition to our family.'

'Legolas has been looking for you,' Estel interjects.

'Indeed,' I agree. 'Have you seen the child's family? Estel mentioned that his brothers were in the kitchen, but I see naught but elves here.'

Elrond's sons have the gall to smirk — smirk! — and I realise that I am missing some vital piece of the puzzle.

'Legolas Thranduilion,' says Elrohir with an irrepressible grin, 'allow me to introduce our foster-brother, Estel of the House of Elrond.'

Mae govannen: Well met (traditional Elvish greeting).
Mellon-nin: My friend.

Over the years, I pay many visits to Rivendell, often acting as messenger between Adar and Lord Elrond, but just as often to spend time with Elladan and Elrohir — bizarre as it may seem, Elrond's sons have actually been good friends of mine since I was old enough to walk. However, I must admit that whereas before I tended to visit only once a century or so, now I find that I am making the journey to Imladris as frequently as every two years, and staying longer when I go. The main reason for this startling increase in visitation is Estel; against my expectations — indeed, against the warnings of my father — I have grown fond of the human, and by his twentieth year I count him as one of my closest friends. The thought of it both elates and horrifies me — Estel has grown into a noble man and a worthy friend, but I fear the day when he will die. When Elrond reveals to us that Estel is in fact Aragorn, heir of Elendil, I feel no more than a temporary relief — Dúnedain he may be, but eventually he will still succumb to age, albeit much later than other Men. I will lose him, and I will never be able to see him again.

The thought gives me great pain. Curse the Doom of mortal Men! How can anyone call it a gift?

Estel — Aragorn, he is now called — consoles me, and explains that he would not have me mourn his death, when it comes.

'It will happen one day, Legolas, but today is not that day,' he says to me. 'I have a great many years left to me still — can we not enjoy our friendship while it lasts?'

'However many years you have left,' I say, 'it is but a fleeting time for me.'

He stares at me for a long time before replying. 'Would you then sever our friendship, so that neither of us will feel sorrow when I pass?'

'Nay,' I deny. 'I could never do that, Aragorn. You are as close to me as a brother, and I would not forego the years I have with you, however short they may be.' I heave a great sigh. 'You have ruined me, Estel.' He smiles, but I am still melancholy. 'I only mourn for you, mellon-nin, that you must one day pass into darkness. I am more sorry for you than I can say.'

Aragorn's smile does not fade, but it softens, becomes more understanding. 'Legolas, mourn only when my time comes, not before. Put it from your mind for now, and be comforted in the knowledge that I do not fear death. It will come for me one day, but I would rather fill my life with happiness and love, and depart Arda with joy, than spend my days feeling aggrieved that I was not granted the immortality of Elves.' His eyes wander as he catches sight of the Lady Arwen across the courtyard — I am well aware of his feelings for my childhood friend, and I feel yet another pang of grief for Aragorn, for he cannot spend eternity with her — and his gaze turns wistful. 'Better to have loved and lost, than never to love at all,' he quotes.

I think that perhaps there is some truth to that proverb, and I resolve not to think such despairing thoughts at this moment. For now, Aragorn is young, and in the prime of his life — he will not age anytime soon, and I must be content with that until I can no longer hold to it.

The shadow in Mirkwood grows stronger, and the darkness spreads across the rest of Arda as well, and I have no time to dwell on thoughts of life and death, of the Gift of Men or the eternity of Elves. There is only battle and resistance, fallen warriors and dangerous woods, and the increasingly fading line between good and evil. The fate of mortals is a small thing compared to what could befall all of Middle-earth if Sauron were to rise again.

And rise he does, as he amasses armies of orcs in Mordor, as he bends Isengard to his will, as he searches for the One Ring which Isildur did not destroy. It is sometime in the year 3009 of the Third Age that Aragorn arrives in Mirkwood with a hideous, emaciated creature called Gollum, whom he captured at Mithrandir's request and entrusts to us for safekeeping. The Gollum-creature escapes nine years later when an army of orcs marches on Mirkwood, launching an attack of a scale that I have not seen before, and Adar dispatches me to Imladris to inform the Council of Elrond of his escape. It is there that I join the Fellowship of the Ring, and through our perilous journeys together I form strong bonds of friendship and brotherhood with all who make up our membership — even, to my eternal surprise, that infernal Dwarf!

The War of the Ring is fraught with such danger and treachery that for the first time I genuinely despair of preserving my own life. It seems impossible that I will survive each and every one of the crises we face, but I do not fear my own death, for I know my soul will find refuge in Valinor — and so my chief objective during this time is to ensure that my companions, my friends, do not receive the Gift of Men prematurely. I do my utmost to protect the Fellowship, in particular — I feel oddly responsible for them, being one of the only two immortals in the group. Then Mithrandir falls to the balrog, and I am shocked to my very core — if someone as powerful as Mithrandir has perished, what hope have the rest of us in such dark times? — and though I continue to fight, I begin to lose hope. I fear so deeply for the deaths of all my friends, mortal or immortal, and I become reckless in my battles, even going so far as to make a game of slaying orcs with Gimli; I do not know what his excuse is, but mine is that I require a distraction from the mortality that presses on me from all sides.

It is Aragorn, of course, who breathes hope back into me — Elrond named him well when he called him Estel — and by the time Minas Tirith calls for aid, I no longer despair. The apprehension that my companions may meet their deaths in battle is still present, and I have a great many to fear for now — Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, even Éomer and the Lady Éowyn, in addition to Aragorn and Gimli — but I no longer doubt that we can win, and I willingly and cheerfully follow Aragorn to recruit the Army of the Dead.

It is only after the War of the Ring, in the golden period of relative peace that follows, that I am truly able to reflect, once more, on the Gift of Men.

When Arwen arrives at Minas Tirith for Aragorn's coronation, I embrace her with joy, but am instantly shocked by how cool she feels.

'What have you done?' I demand of her, taking her hands in mine, as if by my touch I can make them warm again.

Arwen gives me a solemn gaze, and her eyes meet mine with no trace of remorse. 'You know what it is I did.'

'That was barely a year ago!' I exclaim. 'Surely the life of the Eldar cannot be leaving you so soon!'

'Legolas.' She touches my face with her hand — elven hands are not meant to be this cold! — 'I have made my choice. I have forsaken my place in Valinor. You know this; why then does my touch alarm you so?'

I hang my head, half-ashamed. 'Because I did not truly believe it until now.' It is happening, then, it is real — I will lose Arwen as I will lose Aragorn, as I will lose Gimli, and the rest of my mortal friends. If possible, I believe this is even worse, because I have grown up believing for over two millennia that the children of Elrond will be my friends for eternity, but now I must come to terms with the fact that this eternal friendship will hold true only for his sons.

Arwen understands; she can see in my eyes the turmoil of my soul, and she raises my head with gentle fingers under my chin. 'Legolas, do not mourn for me. Regardless of what choice I made, I would not live without Aragorn. This way, I can be with him, and share his life until the end of his days. And when he finally passes, I do not have to face the endless ages of this world without him.' She sighs, and for the first time there is the tiniest hint of regret in her voice. 'I know you do not understand, yet, but one day you will see: the Doom of Men is a Gift.'

I shake my head; I cannot understand, I have never understood, and in spite of what everyone tells me, I do not think I ever will.

Arwen smiles softly, and strokes my cheek. 'My dear Legolas, you are not yet old enough to understand — you do not yet see what a burden has been given us. But believe me when I say that I am happy.'

My mortal friends would be surprised to learn that Arwen is nearly six centuries older than I — I am, to my knowledge, the youngest elf in Middle-earth. Despite my relative youth, however, I am acutely aware of what Arwen's choice means. 'You will never see your mother again, nor your father or your brothers once they sail,' I murmur, still unable to comprehend how she could have made such a decision. Much as I love Aragorn, it pierces me to realise that Arwen has had to give up her entire family to be with him — and I know my pain is shared a hundredfold by Elrond and Elladan and Elrohir. This fact cannot have escaped her notice, but it does not seem to disturb her.

'No,' she agrees with me, 'I will not see them in the Undying Lands. I have made my peace with that.' With practised fingers, she tilts my face so that I am looking her in the eye again. 'But who is to say that I will never see them again?'

'But…the mortal doom…' I stammer, and she laughs at my puzzlement.

'What do Elves know of the Gift of Men?' she says lightly. 'Mayhap it is not so bad as we think. We all come from Arda, after all — perhaps after the breaking of the world we will be reunited somehow.' I am unable to find any response to this unconventional idea, so I wisely say nothing. 'And even if we do not,' Arwen resumes, 'I am happy with my choice.' Her voice is tinged with the sorrow of what she is sacrificing, yet firmly resolute and undeniably satisfied with her course.

Arwen's cool fingers (I find I am getting used to the temperature) stroke my hair as she begins to hum a Sindarin lullaby she had often sung to me when I was a child visiting Imladris. The melody has not lost its soothing effect; I find myself relaxing, drawing out of the melancholy that seized me when I felt the coldness of the Evenstar. When she finishes her song, Arwen looks at me with love and affection, but also with a matronly expression that reminds me of my naneth — and when she speaks, her eyes beg me to understand.

'Legolas, I have had more than two and a half millennia with my family. Can you not be happy that I might now spend at least a century with the man I love?'

It is her sincere plea and her obvious joy at the prospect of wedding Aragorn that makes me bury my sadness and put a smile on my face. Who am I to deny my dearest friends the life and happiness they so desire? I have not found a love like Aragorn and Arwen's; perhaps when I do, I will be able to understand. For now, the least I can do, as a friend, is to accept Arwen's choice, and rejoice with her, until such time when I must grieve for both of them.

'Of course I can,' I reply, and I am rewarded by her beautiful smile and radiant eyes. She hugs me, and I return it, vowing to wear nothing but a smile on my face when I help Elrond present her to Aragorn on the morrow. This much they deserve from me.

I am sincere in my happiness for the couple when I make way for Arwen in the courtyard of Minas Tirith, and I am sincere in my congratulations to Aragorn after Mithrandir unites them in matrimony. The two are delighted, full of love and peace and eagerly looking forward to their life together, and in that moment I can feel nothing but joy for two of my oldest friends. When the ceremony ends I bid goodbye to all the members of the Fellowship with a light heart, because I know I will see them again — the idea of establishing an elven colony in Ithilien is already in my head, but I still fully intend to visit the Glittering Caves and Fangorn Forest with Gimli, and the Shire (Sam has promised hospitality like nowhere else on Middle-earth, but Merry and Pippin claim they can outdo him), and of course I will make it a point to travel regularly to Gondor and Rohan.

Mithrandir and the Hobbits depart the day after the royal wedding, but Gimli and I stay in Gondor some three months more so that we may attend the funeral of Théoden King and the wedding of Faramir and Éowyn. Once that is done with, we too take our leave, and we spend the next two years travelling in each other's company. We go first to Helm's Deep, where Gimli 'hmm's and 'hah's in glee at the quality of the jewels in the Glittering Caves, and declares that once we have fulfilled our promise to travel together he will bring a colony of Dwarves to settle here. I spend more time underground during those two months in Helm's Deep than I have over the course of my entire life. I cannot say I care for caves — give me trees and the sky and stars any day! — but I do appreciate the beauty of the stones, and I am glad to have the chance to learn more about my Dwarf friend. By the time we set out for Fangorn, I have come to understand my diminutive comrade far better than before. And just as the Glittering Caves did not disappoint Gimli, Fangorn does not disappoint me. Some of the trees here are so ancient they are older even than Lord Elrond and my adar. I know not how they have lived this long when all other trees perish of age long before they reach even half the age of Fangorn trees, but it is an absolute delight to be able to commune with them and sit in their branches to listen to their Song, which does much to ease the insistent Sea-longing in my heart. Gimli, of course, is utterly unable to understand why I find trees so fascinating, but he smiles at my antics nonetheless, and I think that he also arrives at a better understanding of Elves.

In the very last year of the Third Age Elrond sends for me to come to Rivendell. This I do, and to my surprise when I arrive I find both Arwen and Aragorn there. After I have greeted them I discover that they have come to bid farewell to Elrond, who is intending to depart for the Undying Lands in a few months. I have been expecting this for some time, but the good cheer my spirit has found this past two years flees at the news, and at the tears in Arwen's eyes. However much she believes in her decision to accept the Gift of Men, it is still a great sorrow to part forevermore from her father. I wonder briefly how I would feel if I knew I would never see Ada again, and I cannot bear the thought. I cannot imagine what Arwen must be going through, and my heart fills with again with the familiar aching pity for those doomed to die.

Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel arrive the morning after I do, and Mithrandir follows that same afternoon. I realise then that all the Ringbearers of the Three will be making for Valinor; Elrond with Vilya, Galadriel with Nenya, Mithrandir with Narya. Come the winter, the last emblems of the Rings of Power will be gone from Middle-earth.

Arwen breaks at the sight of her grandmother, and has to flee to hide her tears. Aragorn follows swiftly after her, but I can do nothing but wish with every fibre of my being that they did not have to experience the Doom of Men. My heart swells with such sorrow that I fear it will burst, and I must also take my leave. I feel no real need to farewell the Sea-goers, for I will see them again, when I make my own journey over the Sea. It is Arwen who must suffer their absence for the rest of her days — and Aragorn too, I realise suddenly, for he loves Elrond as a father and Mithrandir is also dear to him.

'By Eru, this is not fair!' I burst out. I cannot bear to think of the pain my two friends must be feeling, and I take to the trees for comfort. To my chagrin, I no longer feel the peace I once did in the branches of a tree — I have not since I heard the cries of the gulls. And all at once my emotions turn to frustration. Though I still love the trees, I can never again feel completely serene in their midst; my heart longs now for the Sea, and it will not rest until I too have sailed from Middle-earth. I suddenly realise that the pain in my heart is more than sorrow for Arwen and Aragorn — it is, also, the desperate desire for the Sea, very nearly forgotten while I travelled with Gimli, but resurfacing with a vengeance now that I am confronted with actual Elves bound for Valinor. For a moment it is so overwhelming that I seriously entertain the thought of leaving with Elrond. Then I think again of Arwen's heartbroken gaze as she fled from Galadriel, and I forcefully quench my longing. Arwen will be deprived of her adar and her grandmother — I cannot be so selfish as to leave her as well, not when she has such a short time left of her now-mortal life. Nor can I leave Aragorn, nor Gimli, nor the Hobbits whom I still have yet to visit.

I have so many friends doomed to die — I cannot leave until I have spent as much time as I can with them. I may not be able to give them the gift of elven immortality as I sometimes wish I could, but I can remain in their lives for as long as possible, and by Elbereth that is what I will do.

Mithrandir leaves Imladris before the Elves, taking with him Master Bilbo Baggins, who has apparently been granted permission by the Valar to go to Valinor by virtue of his status as a Ringbearer. They will travel by way of the Shire to fetch Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin, who will accompany them to the Grey Havens to say goodbye. If I have interpreted Mithrandir's words correctly, Frodo is also sailing for the Undying Lands. I say farewell to Bilbo, but I feel a pang of regret that I will not see Frodo again, for it is very likely that he will have passed by the time I myself go to Valinor. Instead, I pass a message for him to Mithrandir, who assures me he will tell Frodo my farewell.

Elrond spends a long time with Arwen in her old room the night before he is to leave Imladris for the last time. Aragorn sits outside, his gaze sorrowful and brooding; I know that seeing what Arwen has given up for him hurts him just as much as his own grief for his foster-father, and I wait with him, hoping to provide some comfort. We hear nothing from Arwen's room, and Aragorn stares at the moon and sighs heavily.

'I would never have asked this of her.'

'I know, mellon-nin,' I reply. 'And Arwen knows this also. She made her choice of her own free will, out of her love for you.'

'She will miss them very much.'

'Aye. No choice comes without sorrow for the path not taken. But you must not forget the happiness of the road she has chosen. She loves you, Aragorn. And though she grieves her separation from her family, she does not regret her decision to be with you.'

Aragorn says nothing, but he nods in acknowledgment. After some time he looks at me. 'When are you leaving?'

Absently, I answer, 'I will stay until you return to Gondor. After that I think I shall return to Eryn Lasgalen for a while. I should like to see Ada again.'

'No, Legolas, I do not mean Rivendell. When are you leaving for Valinor?'

I turn around to look sharply at him, my eyes hurt. Aragorn sees this and explains, 'I know the Sea calls to you, mellon-nin. In truth, I had expected you to leave with Elrond to fulfil your Sea-longing.'

'Estel, do you want me to leave?' I have not called him by his Elvish name since I learned his true name, but it bursts from my lips now with the shock of what he is saying.

'Of course not!' he exclaims. 'But I know the call can be irresistible, and I would not wish to keep you in Middle-earth if you are not happy here, no matter my personal feelings.'

It costs him to say this, I know. I have been his friend for so long he cannot imagine life in Middle-earth without me — and in truth, though I lived more than two millennia of my life before I met him, neither can I envision my life without him. It has been eighty-six years since I found that young boy in the gardens of Imladris, but ours is a friendship bound not just by years, but by blood, sweat, and tears, by impossible dangers and a worldwide war, and above all, by brotherhood. Looking at Aragorn under the starlit sky tonight — he is King Elessar now but he will always be Aragorn to me — I know that I cannot sail before he dies.

'Estel, the Sea will always be there, but you will not always be in Middle-earth. I swear to you, I will not sail until your reign ends and you pass into the shadow of death.'

Aragorn's eyes grow wide and he looks rather alarmed. 'Nay, Legolas, do not make such a vow. I will not be responsible for denying you passage to Valinor.'

'For once in your stubborn life, Aragorn, listen to me. I am not denying my Sea-longing, I am simply putting it off until such time when I feel ready to answer the call. I do not feel ready, and I will not be ready until you have passed, so I will not go. I have much left for me still in Middle-earth.'

He gazes at me in wonder, and his eyes fill now with gratitude, and I feel a warmth in my heart that snuffs out the Sea-longing for the time being.

'Are you sure, Legolas?'

I meet his cautiously hopeful eyes with utter solemnity. 'I told you once that I would not forego any of the years I have with you. As it is I do not have a very long time more to enjoy your company — I have no intention of cutting that time even shorter by sailing before your days end.'

His eyes finally alight, and for a few minutes we both forget that by this time tomorrow, the House of Elrond will no longer have its lord.

The following morning we bid goodbye to Elrond and Galadriel, and also Glorfindel and Lindir and the other Rivendell elves who are also sailing. Arwen farewells them all with a gentle smile, but she cannot fool me — she has grown up with these elves in her father's house, and for her, this goodbye is final. She smiles to express her genuine joy that they are going to live blissfully in the Undying Lands, but her undeniable sorrow at their separation lurks in her eyes. Elladan and Elrohir each grasp one of her hands in solidarity; they are not yet sailing, and neither is Lord Celeborn — but their eyes are as open as Arwen's, and they hold the pain they feel for their sister. And I realise then that the twins will sail before Arwen's life ends — they will not be strong enough to watch their sister slip away to where they cannot follow, and they will leave before they have to witness her death.

I linger in Imladris until Arwen and Aragorn leave for Gondor, as promised, and then I betake myself to Eryn Lasgalen, whereupon the first thing I do is to hug Adar as I have not done for centuries now. He is bewildered by my sudden affection, and instantly jumps to the conclusion that I am sailing.

'Legolas, do not cling so,' he tells me. 'I will sail myself very soon — within the century, certainly, and I will meet you in the Undying Lands.'

'I am not sailing yet, Ada.'

My King frowns. 'Then why this outburst of emotion?'

'Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel have gone to the Grey Havens. I have just come from Imladris after seeing Arwen bid farewell to them. Ada, she was so sad. My heart broke for her.'

Adar sighs as he pulls away. 'And you have begun to feel the pain of the loss that is approaching for yourself, have you not?' He shakes his head. 'Iôn-nin, I warned you this would happen. You have grown too attached to mortals; it is not healthy.'

I sigh as well, recognising the strains of an old and familiar argument. 'I will not isolate myself from my friends to save myself pain. I would rather enjoy their love while I can, instead of never knowing the great friendships I have formed with them. I know I will grieve their loss keenly, Ada, but I would not trade their companionship for anything.'

Adar's face is grave. 'The sorrow you will feel when they pass will be deep, Legolas. It is exceedingly painful for Elves to watch their mortal friends suffer the doom of Men — and you have so many you will lose. King Elessar, that infuriating Dwarf, your halfling friends…'

'When the time comes,' I say, unwilling to think on it overmuch, 'I will find a way to manage.'

Somehow, despite my own increasing apprehension for the inevitable — which grows more likely with every year — I manage to assure Adar that I will be fine.

I settle my colony in Ithilien at the dawn of the Fourth Age. Initially I spend a great deal of time there, working with a handful of my kin from Eryn Lasgalen to restore the woods there and establish a prosperous trade with the Men of the city. In the process, I become good friends with Faramir — now the Prince of Ithilien, a title given him by Aragorn — with whom I bond easily because I knew and respected his brother, and because his wife is already one of my friends. For many years, all is well, and for the most part, I am able to push aside my melancholy thoughts, and am blithe and merry as I should be in such a golden age. On those occasions when I am unable to ignore my unease about my friends' shortening lives, I pluck Gimli from his caves in Helm's Deep and spend some time travelling with him — it is always a pleasant and effective distraction, and by the time we return from our adventures I am once again ready to enjoy my remaining time on Middle-earth.

As to why it is Gimli with whom I travel on these occasions…I could say that it is because Gimli is my closest friend besides Aragorn, and Aragorn cannot be away from his duties as King and the Hobbits are not fond of leaving their Shire every few years — but in truth, I know that is not the real reason. I do enjoy Gimli's company, very much — but in my heart, I know Gimli will live the longest out of all my mortal friends, and this is why I choose him to journey across Middle-earth with. I can almost forget about my friends' mortality with Gimli, because he ages slowly, and because his race is one of the few whose lives do not pass in the blink of an eye for Elves.

And so the years pass. I govern Ithilien with Faramir; I see Aragorn at least once every three years. I make my promised visit to the Shire, and am entertained with great gusto by Sam and Merry and Pippin. I fight bands of orcs still wandering Middle-earth with Aragorn and Éomer King. I make a trip to Gimli's caves every year because he insists on it. I spend time with Eldarion, Aragorn and Arwen's son, and teach him to use a bow — and to their parents' chagrin, I teach Eldarion's two sisters as well. I return occasionally to Imladris to visit Elladan and Elrohir; I bid Adar farewell when he sails, and continue to quell my own Sea-longing. I travel with Gimli, and I try to ease the pain of the loss that will one day come.

Word reaches me in the fourth month of the Fourth Age year 63 that King Éomer has died. Faramir and Éowyn leave at once for the royal funeral, and I follow as soon as I have arranged for the ruling of Ithilien in our absence.

It is the first friend I have known who died of natural causes — Éomer was ninety-three years old, and still sound of mind and body when age claimed him at last — and the atmosphere of this burial is distinctly different from those I have attended thus far. Éomer 's family mourns, but there is none of the raw anguish that accompanies a death in battle, none of the debilitating despair that comes with the thought that the person should have had many more years that were unfairly robbed from him; this is instead a quiet, gentle grief, mourning the passing of a beloved man and great king, but with consolation and some measure of celebration in the knowledge that he lived a full life and many years, and passed peacefully. Éomer's wife and son grieve perhaps more sorely than anyone else, but they do not rage. Éowyn weeps, but she does not sob like she did for Théodred or Théoden. Aragorn's gaze is saddened, but not overly so, as he pays his respects to his fellow king. Arwen sheds only a few tears — she appears to have accepted the Gift of Men with as much grace as she does everything else.

I am less sanguine.

I had thought it would hurt less because this death was not a result of battle or illness — indeed, Éomer himself had told me on my last visit that he did not expect to live much longer, and that he was satisfied with his life, and could leave in peace — but my heart pains me still, and my tears flow freely though I make not a sound.

Merry and Pippin meet with me briefly before they take their leave to inform me that they are moving to Minas Tirith, now that both their wives have died and they are retired from their respective offices as Master of Buckland and Thain of the Shire — and I am struck by how old they are. No longer are they the sprightly, mischief-making halflings I once knew — playful they remain even in their age, but their faces are lined and their hair is grey, and they do not chase each other as they once did. Sam left for the Undying Lands not long ago, and very soon, these two Hobbits too will pass from Middle-earth, leaving only an Elf, a Man, and a Dwarf to remember our Fellowship — and that not for long. Merry and Pippin hug me and tell me not to worry, but though I hide my pain from them, I cannot fool the King of Gondor. Aragorn rests a hand on my shoulder in sympathy, but he cannot dwell to comfort me — he is needed in Gondor, and he and his queen (and the Hobbits) depart as soon as the ceremony is over. Instead, it is Gimli — dear Gimli, who carried himself calmly and offered his final salute to our departed friend with dignity — who comes to stand by my side. With painful awareness I realise that my Dwarf, too, is ageing — his red beard is now generously shaded with grey. It seems that everywhere I look, I am surrounded by reminders of my friends' inevitable deaths, for even Aragorn had greyer hair and more lines in his face. Only Arwen was unchanged — mortal she might now be, but her elven grace remains with her and the Evenstar retains its beauty even as it slowly fades.

'Ah, Legolas, we are getting old,' Gimli says as Faramir nods at us before wrapping an arm around his wife as they retreat indoors. 'It does not seem so long ago that Éomer was judging our drinking contest in Rohan's halls, does it, laddie?'

'I remember it as though it had occurred yesterday,' I respond, my lips forming an involuntary smile. 'He was very much amazed at my tolerance.'

Gimli snorts — he recalls our now-famous contest with considerably less fondness than I. 'Pah! A Dwarf bested by an Elf in a drinking game! 'Tis unheard of!'

'I have not tasted ale since that day,' I confess as I turn to Gimli. 'Come, my friend, let us go and find some, and drink in remembrance of Éomer King.'

Gimli grins widely at me. 'Aye, Legolas, now you're talking!'

That is exactly what we do — in fact, we do it in the exact same hall as the last time we drank together in Rohan. But though Gimli is happily drunk by sundown, no amount of alcohol can wash away the sorrow that weighs upon me.

As the sun sets, I gaze out the window and raise my tankard. 'Mae govannen, ar-Éomer. Quel esta. Namaarie, mellon-nin.' (1)

(1) 'Well met, King Éomer. Rest well. Farewell, my friend.'

In no time at all, it seems to me, Aragorn calls me to Gondor for the funerals of Merry and Pippin. They had dwelt in Minas Tirith less than two years before they both passed, within minutes of each other. I find it in my mourning to be grateful to the Valar that the noble Hobbits died on the same day, for their bond was so strong that either would have felt crippling grief if the other had perished before him. At least this way they may make their final journey the same manner they did everything else in their lives: together.

And somewhere through my tears, it occurs to me that I feel more pain than either Merry or Pippin do, because the dead do not feel — and it is shocking how ironic that is, since it is the dead who die.

'Are we not taking them back to the Shire?' I ask Aragorn that night as we sit in his chambers with drinks in our hands. King Elessar shakes his head.

'They asked to be buried here in Gondor. They said that since Frodo and Sam had gone to Valinor, there was no one left in the Shire to remember what they did for Middle-earth, and they wished instead to rest forevermore in the kingdom they helped to deliver from Mordor.'

I lower my eyes, unwilling to show my old friend how deeply I am affected. 'Hobbits,' I mutter. 'Noble to the very end.'

'Indeed,' Aragorn agrees. 'I intend to have them entombed beside me, when I die.'

My head comes up to look at him with pained eyes. 'Please, Estel, do not speak so of such things.'

'It is the least I can do for such loyal and worthy friends,' he insists.

'It is not that which I object to. I refer to the way in which you speak of your death, in such a cavalier manner, as if it matters not to you.'

'Because it does not. I have told you before, I do not fear death.' Aragorn gazes at me with serious eyes. 'Legolas, you must prepare yourself. Time is catching up with us all, and my own years in Middle-earth grow short. I have perhaps several decades yet, but the day is coming soon when I shall pass into Mandos' embrace.'

'Nay,' I cry, 'not soon! Speak no more, Aragorn — I cannot bear to think of it!'

'Denial will get you nowhere, my friend.' Aragorn sets his glass down and takes my hands in his, his face understanding but resolute. 'Legolas, you vowed to me you would not sail until I died. I require now another promise from you.' I try to protest, but he holds firm. 'Mellon-nin, when I die, set sail immediately. I worry for you, when we all pass and you are the only one left. I would not have you languishing from grief in Middle-earth when the Sea calls to you and there is healing to be found in Valinor.'

'I cannot imagine that any magic in Valinor would heal me from so much pain in my soul.'

'In that case, you must not tarry, and make for the Grey Havens tomorrow.'

I stare at him in shock. 'Aragorn, I swore a vow!'

'And gladly would I release you from it, if it means you do not have to suffer the grief of seeing my death. If sailing before I die would save you pain, I would let you go.'

'Nay!' I deny with true vehemence. 'Never! The pain would be greater were I to sail ere your days end! I will not break my vow!'

Aragorn searches my eyes, and he seems to find what he is looking for, for he nods in acquiescence. 'Then do not, but promise me that you will make for the Undying Lands upon the moment of my death. Your grief will be less in Valinor.'

I bow my head, acknowledging his words. Ever is he seeking to ensure my well-being — it is a habit he has possessed since the earliest days of our friendship, for all that I am the immortal and he is the more vulnerable. 'Aye, Aragorn. I promise I will sail once you die, and will not tarry.'

He smiles then, and releases my hands; the warmth from his skin gives way to cool air, and I try very hard not to think of the time when my hands will never feel his touch again.

Months pass, and I bury my sorrow again, busying myself in Ithilien and further travels with Gimli, who is ever-willing to accompany me, though he is starting to complain that I pull him away from the Glittering Caves far too often. It is seven years since Merry and Pippin passed, and I am starting to feel the pain finally lessen, when time claims yet another one of my friends. Éowyn dies in the year 72, and as the Lord of Ithilien, it is Faramir who presides over her burial. The Steward of Gondor's grief far outweighs that of anyone in Ithilien, Gondor, or Rohan. Lady Éowyn was beloved in all three regions, but by none more than her husband. Faramir's mourning is obvious to all, and for the first time, I grieve not for my departed friend, but for the one she left behind.

A week later, I call on Faramir to enquire about his emotional well-being. He lets me in, and we sit in silence for a long while as he gathers his thoughts.

'She left too soon.'

It has been quiet for so long that I am a little startled when Faramir finally speaks. 'Aye,' I agree. 'But she lived a long and happy life.' I've found that on this particular death, the platitudes and comforting words come more easily to me now — I am beginning to learn that it is not the dead we should feel sorry for, but the loved ones they leave to remember them.

'Aye, ninety-eight is a grand old age.' Faramir smiles, but it does not touch his eyes. 'And yet here I sit, at one hundred and ten, and I live when Éowyn does not.'

I blink in astonishment. 'Are you saying what I think you are saying?'

'I know not your thoughts, Legolas, only my own. Both Éowyn and I always imagined that I would perish first, as I am twelve years her senior and my constitution consistently proved to be the weaker between us.' I say nothing, though inwardly I agree — well do I remember the number of times the Lady of Ithilien attended to her husband's ailments.

'It is not for us to decide when our lives end,' I say instead.

'No, you are right — only the Half-elven and the Dúnedain have that gift. I do not envy Aragorn his title or his kingdom, but I envy his ability to choose when he passes. If I had the power, I would have chosen to die before Éowyn, that I might never know a life without her.'

I am suddenly reminded of another night, and another conversation, on the eve of a wedding. Arwen's words come unbidden to my mind: 'You do not yet see what a burden has been given us.' Faramir is suffering without his wife, it is plain to see — is this what she was referring to? The circumstances could not be more different, but the sentiment is the same; Arwen, too, did not wish to live without her love, and here is Faramir, a Man, declaring the very same. I am struck with a feeling of revelation. Is this, then, the reason for the mortal doom? Dying so that one does not have to live through centuries and millennia without the people one loves who have already passed on?

Faramir sighs then, and I am pulled from my reflection. 'In truth, Legolas, I am weary,' he confesses. 'I have lived far past the normal lifespan of an average Man, and I grow tired of my years. I do not know how long I still have to live, but I will be glad, I think, when my time finally comes.'

'Often have I heard elderly folk say that to me,' I muse. 'I have even known some of my own kin who grew so weary of life that they faded from Middle-earth. I still do not understand how any could wish such a thing.'

Faramir chuckles. 'Oh, Legolas — I know you do not understand, but when one lives for so long, memories can become a great burden. Sorrows and heartaches accumulated over many years of living can make one wish for respite in death. In this, as in almost all other respects, Men are far less hardy than Elves; but I think even Elves feel the weight of their years, once they have lived long enough.' I know all too well the burden of which he speaks.

'Truly, your words make sense,' I reply. 'I have never thought in that manner before, but now that you have spoken of it, I find I must agree.' I hesitate, but I must know, so I press on, 'Faramir, my people term death the Gift of Men. As a Man yourself, would you consider it so?'

My friend's expression turns thoughtful, and he actually smiles as he answers, 'When I was young, no. But now that I have lived, I must say I do. Men are not meant to live for so long. When death finally comes for me, I will welcome its embrace. I have no Undying Lands to retreat to, but mayhap in the afterlife of Men I may still be reunited with Éowyn and Boromir.' He claps a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. 'It is you, my friend, who will have to go on living without us.'

These are heavy words to ponder, and for the first time in my life — it is not that long by the standards of the Elves — I begin to wonder whether this mortal doom I have so often cursed and pitied may in fact be exactly what my people have long called it: a Gift of Men.

Faramir gets his wish in due time; ten years to the day after our conversation, he joins Éowyn in their tomb in Emyn Arnen. Knowing that he met his death serenely and happily eases my sorrow somewhat, and I find it in my heart to hope that he will indeed get to see his brother and wife again.

But as for myself, the weight of another loss is added to my soul, and I finally understand why the majority of my people are so careful not to attach themselves to mortals — the pain when they inevitably perish is sharp indeed, and I realise now that there are worse things than the mortal doom. After almost twenty-three centuries of life, I come to see that the Gift of Men is a gift indeed; heavy the Doom of Men might be, but heavier still is the Doom of Elves.

For it is I who must carry the weight of my memories alone, with no hope of the release found in death.

Just after the first century of the Fourth Age, Elladan and Elrohir visit me in Ithilien with the news I have been expecting ever since their adar left for the Undying Lands.

'We are sailing, Legolas,' Elladan informs me. 'By this time next year, Ithilien will be the only remaining stronghold of the Eldar in Middle-Earth.'

'Not so, Elrondion. Eryn Lasgalen still stands,' I remind him. Lord Celeborn took charge of my home woods after Adar set sail with the majority of my woodland kin.

Elladan, however, shakes his head. 'Eryn Lasgalen will empty before the autumn ends. Celeborn is sailing as well, and with him will go all the remaining wood-elves who did not leave with Thranduil.'

'Daeradar misses his wife,' Elrohir puts in.

'I see.' I had known most of my kin would sail before I did, but I did not expect mine to be the last elven colony in Middle-earth. I feel some regret that Eryn Lasgalen, my beautiful home for over two millennia, will no longer hear the Song of the Eldar or feel our touch, but I have long accepted that my place is no longer in the Greenwood.

Elrohir mistakes my small sigh of regret for my forgotten kingdom as sadness that they are leaving, and he hastens to explain. 'We would stay longer, Legolas, but the Sea calls to us, and we have nothing to anchor us here as you do. Estel is getting old —' I wince at the reminder. '— and it will not be long now until he dies.'

'And once he does, Arwen will follow quickly,' Elladan adds in a voice full of sorrow. 'Elrohir and I have no wish to see them both fade from us.'

'You need not explain,' I assure them. 'I have long known you would not stay until they passed.'

'Are you sure you wish to do so?' Elrohir inquires seriously. 'It will hurt, Legolas, more than you can imagine.'

'Estel grew up as our brother, and we love him, make no mistake,' says Elladan, 'but you and he are closer than brothers. The pain will be great.'

'I know.' Ai, Valar, I do indeed. 'But I vowed that I would not sail until he passes, and I will remain true to my word. Aragorn and Gimli and I are the only remaining members of the Fellowship.'

'Do you also intend to wait until your Dwarf passes? Or Arwen?' asks Elrohir.

'Nay. Aragorn made me promise to sail as soon as he dies. He does not wish me to prolong my grief by staying on in Middle-earth without him.'

'Estel is very wise, for a human,' Elladan approves. No matter how many other names Aragorn has, the twins have never called him anything but Estel.

'It must be because he learned well from our elven wisdom, brother mine,' Elrohir says teasingly.

Elladan smirks. 'Indeed.'

I look from one twin to the other in amusement. 'What wisdom?' I jest. 'I have often seriously questioned whether or not Elrond misrecorded your birth year — you are so childish you cannot possibly be seven hundred years my senior.'

'This from a laegrim princeling who makes a game with a Dwarf out of everything under the sky,' Elrohir retorts with a smile.

'We must not linger,' Elladan says, though he too is smiling — it has been long since we have teased each other such, and the lightness of the banter is a welcome respite from the sorrow that awaits us all. 'We came to tell you first since Ithilien was on the way, but we must make for Minas Tirith to farewell Arwen and Estel.' I refuse to let any pity show on my face or in my voice; Elladan and Elrohir will have grief enough without my own. 'If you are intending to pay a final visit to Imladris before it empties of all Elves, you must come before midsummer.'

'Aye, I will remember that. Aa' i'sul nora lanne'lle, mellyn-nin. Tenna' ento lye omenta.' (2)

'Namaarie an-hi, Legolas,' they bid me, and then they are gone. (3)

I am left alone once more to ponder my remaining time in Middle-earth, and the hammer that is waiting to fall on my long friendship with Aragorn. The sorrow in my heart has increased with every death of a friend over the last two score years; but no one close to me has died since Faramir passed twenty years ago, and I have managed to keep my more melancholy thoughts at bay since then, largely because of my newfound understanding of the Gift of Men. But Elladan and Elrohir's words have brought them back to the forefront of my mind, and I become restless and depressed, and I have no way to assuage these feelings (I ceased to lure Gimli away on spontaneous journeys after he reached two hundred and twenty-three, some twenty-one years ago). Unable to remain still, I don my cloak and go outside. Under the light of the stars, I attempt to clear my head and soothe my soul.

As Elladan and Elrohir said, Aragorn is getting old — he recently celebrated his one hundred and ninety-second birthday, and my time with him grows ever shorter, marching on quickly when I wish it would simply pause. Gimli, too, is near the end of his life — Dwarves live an average of two hundred and fifty years, and Gimli is two hundred and forty-four this year. Very soon, I will be the only one left to remember our Fellowship, and the knowledge of the misery that awaits me has been hanging over my soul for many decades now, residing in the same space as the ache of denying my Sea-longing. And yet, though I know I am destined for intense grief in the very near future, I cannot bring myself to regret the friendships I have made. I have derived many joys from them, and despite the knowledge of my friends' impending deaths, I have been genuinely happy these past hundred years since the War of the Ring — it would be a pitiful Elf indeed who could not delight in the peace and prosperity of this current age. The memories I have made in these years are worth any pain that comes.

I only hope that I will be able to remember this, when Aragorn's time finally comes.

Daeradar: Grandfather.
Laegrim: Wood Elf.
(2) 'May the wind fill your sails, my friends. Until next we meet.'
(3) 'Farewell for now, Legolas.'

It is late autumn when I fall prey to a whim to visit Minas Tirith. At first I think little of it — the majority of my visits to Aragorn these past years have been contrived as and when the fancy takes me — but this time, as I approach the White City, a deep foreboding fills my heart, and I urge Aranarth, my horse to trot faster. The city appears no different from the last time I was here, and neither should this spontaneous visit of mine, but somehow I know that something is about to happen, and that I have arrived just in time.

Aragorn greets me calmly and happily when I am announced in the throne room, and he too is no different from when I last saw him, merely six months ago. He is old, yes — his hair and beard are silver-white now, and his walk is slower — but he is still healthy and strong, and the lines that grace his face do not give him a withered look, but bestow upon him a sage dignity that befits a king such as he. My heart is not calmed, however, and I will not rest until I have heard from his own mouth that all is well. My eyes convey my meaning perfectly well with nary a word, and my old friend laughs and extends a hand to me and bids me to walk with him.

'Truly, Legolas, your timing is impeccable,' he says to me, sounding amused as we stroll through the royal gardens of the seventh ring. 'I had just been composing an invitation to you to come when you arrived.'

'It seems my uncanny ability of sensing when you need me remains as strong as ever,' I say. 'Now will you tell me why you wished my presence?' My voice turns worried as I ask, 'All is well with you, is it not?'

Aragorn smiles gently, but his eyes are sad. 'Nothing is amiss, mellon-nin; everything is progressing as it should be.'

The words are right, but the tone is wrong. 'Somehow that does not reassure me,' I say. 'Please, Aragorn, tell me what is wrong.' We have come to a stop beside the White Tree of Gondor, the only tree in the entire kingdom which is laden with blossoms despite the lateness of the season. Yet the majestic white flowers are slowly beginning to wither as well — the cold is starting to affect them.

Aragorn sighs, and caresses the trunk of the Tree. 'My time draws close, Legolas. I do not think I will reign even one more year.'

My heart sinks like a stone within me, and I am assailed by both emotional suffering and actual physical pain from my Sea-longing. The combination of the two is so disorienting that I actually have to put out a hand to support myself against the White Tree.

'Legolas?' Aragorn is instantly concerned. 'Are you all right?'

I wish to reassure him, for I know he worries about me far more than he should; but my grief is painful, and I can only whisper, 'Do not leave me, Estel. Please.' There was a time when I would not be caught dead begging as I am now, but I have matured much since then and my elven pride is the least of my concerns in this moment.

Aragorn's face softens as he understands my plight. 'We knew this day would come eventually, mellon-nin. I have lived for so long already.'

'It is not enough. Ed' i'ear ar' elenea, Estel, it is not enough.' (4)

'Mellon-nin, I do not believe any number of years will be enough for you, but as for me, I feel I have lived long enough.'

'I am not ready,' I cry. 'Please, Estel, I am not ready to let you go. I need more time to prepare.'

'You have had over two centuries, Legolas.'

'And I beg you, give me a little more,' I plead. 'You are Dúnedain; you can choose the day of your death. Lá, na-gwend-enc, if you love me, choose not to go so soon.' (5)

'Legolas,' Aragorn says gently as he puts his hands on my trembling shoulders, 'It is precisely because I am Dúnedain that I have decided to leave shortly. I would rather take my leave of Arda while I am still hale, and die with dignity, than wait until my body and my mind have shrivelled with age. For that is what will happen, if I do not choose to die before winter comes.'

'Before winter!' My heart is breaking, my soul is ripping to shreds where I stand, and I do not even feel my Sea-longing amidst all this pain. 'Nay, Estel, it cannot be! I would have less than a month left with you, and it is too little! Will you not delay as long as you may, for mine and Arwen's sake if not your own?'

'I will not. Eldarion is full-grown and ready to be king, and I must honestly say that I have grown weary, and am looking forward to my rest. As for Arwen, I will speak with her, as I have done with you.'

'Estel…' I am begging, but he is relentless.

'I do this for you also, gwador-nin,' he says. 'I have kept you in Middle-earth for too long already, and I must confess the guilt of keeping you from Valinor has never sat easy with me.' I open my mouth to protest, but he challenges me, 'Tell me, Legolas, how much has the Sea-longing hurt you these last six-score years?'

I do not answer. The pain of the longing varies as the seasons — at times it has been almost unbearable, but there are also many weeks when it rests mostly dormant, only a dull ache. I cannot deny that it has been getting worse in recent years, however, and Aragorn reads this in my eyes no matter how much I try to hide it from him.

'You have nothing to feel guilty for, Aragorn,' I cry. 'I chose to stay because the pain of being separated from you would have been ten times worse than the pain of denying the Sea. Please, do you not see what you are doing to me? Do not leave me, Estel — not yet, not before winter, not so soon — please!'

But no matter how much I weep and plead and beseech him, Aragorn will not be swayed.

'Legolas, please, do not weep,' he entreats me. 'I did not seek to invite you here only to witness my death. I am not going quite yet, and I wish to spend some time more with you ere I leave. Can you not enjoy our last days together — one final stretch of time with pleasure and happiness — before you mourn?'

I inhale deeply, stilling my emotions as Aragorn awaits my answer. He hopes to make me forget, to make me happy with his company before he leaves forever. My tears are spent for this day, but I have no doubt that I will cry enough to fill a river in the next few weeks. Still, I cannot deny my best friend this last gift; I have spent so many years keeping the grief at bay already — what is a few more weeks? I make myself smile.

'For you, gwador-nin, I will do anything.'

Aragorn smiles then, bright and gay and full of affection for me, and I want to weep again — but I do not, and I will not. I am determined not to mourn while Aragorn yet lives, however soon I have to let him go.

I will be mourning plenty when he finally does leave me.

(4) 'By the sea and stars, Estel...'
(5) 'Please, by our friendship...'
Gwador-nin: My brother (sworn).

Aragorn has already sent for Gimli, and the good Dwarf arrives some six days after I did. He has gotten grumpier in his old age, and he is cursing and swearing as he stiffly eases himself off his pony.

'Come on horseback, he says,' he grumbles as I help him down. 'It will be faster, he says. Mayhap he has forgotten just how short Dwarves are and how stiff our joints get as we age — it appears that I will have to educate him, very thoroughly.'

'If it's so uncomfortable, why did you take Aragorn's advice to ride?' I inquire. My friend gives me a scathing glare.

'If you imagine that I was going to walk from Helm's Deep to here, you're even more deluded than that King of Men.'

'Apologies, Gimli, but I still do not understand. If you were not going to walk or ride, how else did you intend to get to Minas Tirith?'

'I do most of my travelling by wagon now, Elf. It's slower, but more comfortable.'

I do not bother asking why Gimli did not travel by wagon this time. He knows what he has been called to Minas Tirith for, what is about to happen.

Aragorn greets Gimli warmly, and the Dwarf utters several choice words to him about dragging him to Gondor on horseback, but his ire is half-hearted at best and nonexistent at worst. For this visit, Gimli would have travelled by eagle if he had to.

The three of us spend much of the following days together, and it is almost like old times — when it was Man, Elf, and Dwarf against orcs and ghosts and bandits — once more. Despite what is soon to happen, I do take great pleasure from being with my brothers again — it has been years since the three of us were all together. Sometimes we laugh and jest and challenge each other to ridiculous dares; Gimli even challenges me to another drinking contest, and of course, I am the victor. Aragorn takes Éomer's place as our umpire, but no amount of cheating or bias (I am well aware that Aragorn conspired with the Dwarf to try to humiliate me by ensuring my defeat in this game) on his part is enough to test my alcohol tolerance. Other times, we dine in a (relatively) dignified manner, reminiscing about our adventures and trading stories.

Through it all, I keep my word, and do not shed a single tear for Aragorn.

It is the night of the full moon — the last full moon King Elessar will ever see — when, quite by accident, I run into Arwen on a balcony. I have hardly seen her on this visit though I have been here two weeks already; and now that she has crossed my path, I am reminded that I am not the only one losing Aragorn.

Arwen, however, is calmer than I expected her to be about her husband's impending death. Indeed, she does not seem to be thinking about it at all; her lovely face lifts in a warm, unimpeded smile as she sees me.

'Quel lome, Legolas,' she says sweetly; in her voice I hear none of the anguish that lurks in my own heart, and I can scarcely believe my ears. It is as if she is living in a different reality altogether — a reality where her husband is not about to choose his death day within the week.

'Quel lome, Arwen. You are up late,' I observe.

'As are you,' she returns, resting her pale hands on the railing of the balcony.

'I am too restless for sleep.'

'Then I suppose that makes two of us, mellon-nin.' Her gaze turns sad, and I realise that she ishiding her own pain underneath her graceful expressions.

'How are you, my lady?' I question.

Arwen knows I am not asking after her health. 'As well as can be, I suppose. I knew this day would come, after all.'

'You are handling it very well,' I remark. She smiles gently.

'There is no point grieving until he is gone. I knew what would happen the day I chose to accept the Gift of Men, and I have been preparing myself for this since our marriage.'

'And yet, here you are, when by rights you should be in your bed,' I point out gently.

Arwen sighs softly. 'I may have accepted that Aragorn will die, but that does not make it easier to bear. During the day I spend as much time as I can with him, and I feel no sorrow then because he is still with me; but at night, when he sleeps, and the stars twinkle to remind me that another day has gone…then I do feel it.'

'How do you stand it?' I ask impulsively. I am dreading the end of this week; I have no idea how I will cope with Aragorn's death, and it seems I might learn how to keep sane from the Evenstar herself, for Arwen's grace is so composed.

'I will not survive after Aragorn goes,' she says, very calmly. 'It will hurt me very much when he dies, but I will not long be parted from him.' She turns to look at me with sympathy in her silver-blue eyes. 'And I am sorry, but you do not have that gift, Legolas.'

'No, I don't,' I concede sadly. 'The Gift of Men was never open to me.'

My bitterness must have influenced my tone, or perhaps Arwen simply knows me too well; in any case, her expression becomes shrewd, and she says, 'You finally understand, then.'

I nod. 'I do. And believe me, I have never regretted being immortal as much as I have this week. If you'll forgive me for saying so, Arwen, at this moment, I truly envy you.'

'You have others who love you, Legolas,' she reminds me gently. 'Thranduil and Cerel await you in Valinor, and I am sure my brothers are also eagerly anticipating your arrival. Your path does not lie with Aragorn and I.'

Too true it does not. It seems so long ago that I was cursing the Doom of Men; now I almost wish for it myself.

'Ai, Ilúvatar, why must we separate?' I ask plaintively, frustratedly. 'Why have the Valar been so cruel as to give us such sorrow in this world?'

'All things have their reasoning. If we did not have to mourn our sorrows, how would we be able to appreciate our joyous moments?' Arwen, as always, is keen and insightful, and her words rightly humble a self-righteous prince. I hang my head, chastised.

'It hurts, Arwen,' I confess to her very quietly. 'How will I go on? There are countless millennia I must live through until the breaking of the world — how can I live with this pain?'

'Do not see it as an ending, Legolas. As Mithrandir once told me, death is but another path.'

'But not for me.'

'No,' she concedes. 'I'm afraid you are taking the more difficult road, mellon-nin — but I still hold to the hope that somehow, some day, we may yet meet again.' She meets my eyes resolutely. 'Until then, all those of us who have passed before you — Aragorn, myself, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin, Éomer, Faramir, Éowyn — all of us will live on in your memories. For though Elves are doomed to suffer because of such memories, there is also joy and solace to be found in them, and you will find these in yours, in Valinor. And with time, you will heal, until all that is left is a tiny ache, and happy remembrance.'

I am silent as I ponder her words. Arwen and I have come full circle; the beginnings of this conversation were already present when we spoke the night she came to Minas Tirith, and now in the twilight of hers and Aragorn's days I am finally able to understand what she was trying to tell me then.

'Better to have loved and lost,' I cite softly, 'than never to have loved at all.'

Arwen smiles beatifically when she sees how much I comprehend. 'Exactly, mellon-nin.'

She finishes her stargazing, and bids me goodnight. I let her go believing that she has convinced me of my eventual healing.

After all, by her own words, acceptance and experience are two very different matters.

Quel lome: Good evening.

The day I have been hoping would never come has defied my wishes and dawned on Arda anyway. Aragorn tells us it is time, and he passes the throne to Eldarion before betaking himself to the House of Kings, where his tomb has already been prepared according to his instructions. There, he gives us his final farewells.

To Gimli, he says: 'Gimli, son of Glóin, long have we travelled, and much have we done. A more magnificent Dwarf I could not have asked for; you have been a more than wonderful companion, and all the words of all the languages in the world will never be enough to express how heartily glad I am that I was able to be your friend. Farewell, Gimli, my friend, and know that you were loved well by King Elessar.'

'And know that King Elessar was equally well loved by Gimli,' the Dwarf replies through his tears. Gimli is not one for sentimental gestures, but he makes an exception this once to kiss Aragorn's hand before he leaves the chamber.

I brace myself as much as I am able; my whole body is tense and trembling with the force of my grief as Aragorn turns his attention to me.

'Legolas,' he murmurs, 'do not feel sorry for me. I am going to my well-earned rest, and I am glad.'

'It is not for you that I feel sorry,' I say. 'It is for myself. For now at last do I understand the curse of my immortality, for I must live while you may rest in blessed sleep, and endure the agony of emptiness where our friendship should be for all the rest of Arda.'

'Our friendship will never be empty,' Aragorn tells me. 'For as long as you live, my friend, you will remember the bond we had, and it will live on in you. I could think of no better end for us than for our brotherhood to be immortalised in the Prince of Elves.'

I scoff through my suppressed sobs. 'I am Prince over only a small portion of Elves, Estel.'

Aragorn's eyes are moist and brimming with emotion. 'You were always the only Elf-Prince in my eyes, Legolas Greenleaf.'

I choke, and I can only clutch his hand tightly, gripping it as though by my strength I can bind him to me. Aragorn presses my face to his with his other hand, and kisses my forehead.

'Remember your promise,' he whispers to me. 'Tarry not in Middle-earth, and sail at once. Be free. You have fulfilled your vow, and you have stayed to the very end, and for that, I am forever grateful. Hannon le, gwador-nin.' When he pulls away, his eyes are serene. 'Farewell, Legolas Greenleaf, my friend, my brother, my kin. Aa' lasser en lle coia orn n' omenta gurtha.' (6)

'Quel kaima, Estel.' (7)

I release Aragorn and flee from the House, leaving him to spend his final minutes with Arwen. The street outside is silent and unoccupied, for which I am desperately thankful. My entire being feels so desolately empty, and my eyes are filled with so many tears that I cannot see; and as for my heart! — it feels like it has shattered into a million fragments, and I will never be able to put it back together. What I am feeling is beyond grief, beyond pain; it is agony, it is torture, and I am drowning in the Sea, but it is a Sea of overwhelming unbearableness — and I want to die. Ai, Valar, I wish to die! — to follow my brother into the Doom of Men! No, not a Doom — it is a Gift, surely, for it would end my torment. The Gift of Men — oh, Eru, now I know what it is, and I know not how I ever pitied those who have it!

But I am an Elf, and I must suffer. I must feel every stab of blinding distress, every wretched spasm of despair; I must feel my raging sobs wrack my body until I can no longer breathe, and I must howl my utter misery until my throat is hoarse and my eyes have no more tears.

I am Legolas Greenleaf, and I am cursed with immortality.

Hannon le: Thank you.
(6) 'May the leaves of your life tree never turn brown.'
(7) 'Sleep well, Estel.'

Somewhere in my Sea of anguish I sense a solid, sturdy presence that has come to share my burden. I feel strong arms wrap around me and hold me tight, and I hear a rough voice soothing my tormented soul.

'It's all right, lad, he's at peace…hush now, princeling…it's all right.'

I cling to the Dwarf, because he is all I have left.

I do not know when Arwen comes out, but upon my first glance at her I know Aragorn has truly gone. The light of the Evenstar has finally gone out, not a sparkle shines in her eyes — her radiance has been quenched forevermore. She walks as if in a daze, and she appears to have aged twenty years or more — so frail and breakable she looks!

She looks to me, but does not approach; her elvish forearm salute is familiar, but strange also. 'Farewell, Legolas Greenleaf. Remember me fondly.'

'Forever shall I keep your memory in my heart, Arwen Undómiel,' I vow.

Arwen does not reply, or nod, or otherwise acknowledge my words. She trails up the street and vanishes into the gloom of the night. I will not see her again.

Above, the stars gleam like jewels in the sky.

Gimli and I leave Gondor that very night. We retrieve our horses from the stables and ride from Minas Tirith, and neither of us ever looks back.

The dawn comes with the first tinge of an orange-pink ray peeking over the hills, but I do not look at it. The Sun is East, and my only path now lies to the West. I glance down at the Dwarf curled up near my feet; I had expected him to be sleeping, but his eyes are open.

'I will sail now, Gimli,' I tell him.

Gimli nods sagely. 'Aye, lad, I know. I will travel with you to the Grey Havens, and see you off.'

'You may travel with me further than that. Come with me, Gimli. We are the only ones left of the Fellowship, and I cannot bear to leave you behind. Sail with me to Valinor, old friend — let us make our final journey together.'

There is a light in my Dwarf's eyes, but he snorts softly. 'And when they throw you out for bringing a Dwarf with you, then what will you do?'

His matter-of-fact manner makes me smile despite the mourning I feel for Aragorn. 'They will not. You are elvellon of the highest order, and Lady Galadriel will vouch for you.'

Gimli clucks his tongue and narrows his eyes. 'Always so very sure of yourself, aren't you, Elf?'

'Nay, Gimli. I merely know what my heart tells me.'

My last friend huffs and gazes to the West, and I know he is thinking.

'Aye,' he acquiesces finally. 'To the Undying Lands it is.' With a grin, he adds, 'I should like to gaze upon the Lady Galadriel one last time.'

'Then come, my friend,' I say, extending my hand, 'and let us be off.'

I pull Gimli to his feet, and as I mount Aranarth I cast a glance at his own pony, and I ask him, 'Will you ride with me, Gimli?'

'Aye,' he agrees readily, 'but what shall I do about Tisil?'

I guide Aranarth over to Tisil and stroke her mane with my hand. 'Tisil, hannon le buia-ammen. Hi amin pol-leithia le. Quel cuio, roch-Gimli.' (8)

Tisil neighs gently, and nuzzles Gimli, before galloping back towards the East. Gimli watches her go fondly.

'She served me well, that pony.'

I reach down and pull him to sit behind me on Aranarth, like days of old when we rode to battle beside Aragorn.

'Do you wish to return to Helm's Deep to say your goodbyes?' I enquire.

Gimli shakes his head. 'Nay, lad. I am very old for a Dwarf, and I have said all I need to say to my kin in Rohan. Should I not return, they will assume I have passed in Gondor. They will be fine.'

'Very well, my friend,' I cede. 'But if you please, bear with me, for before we make for the Havens I would like to detour north. There is one last place I must go to before we leave.'

Elvellon: Elf-friend.
(8) 'Tisil, thank you for your service. Now I release you to be free. Live well, Gimli's horse.'

The Halls of the Elven-king are almost the same as they were when Adar finally left for Valinor, nearly seventy years ago. The trees that form the palace are very old, and they grow slowly. It is greener than I remember, but far from overgrown, and I am glad that I get to see my home for so many centuries before it becomes unrecognisable. Gimli has been here twice before, to Adar's chagrin, and he looks about us with a similar sense of nostalgia.

'Your people built this well, Legolas; it will be many centuries before these Halls return to forest.'

'And oddly enough, that gives me comfort, Gimli. I have not lived in Eryn Lasgalen for many years, but it is still my homeland, and it gladdens me to know that the Halls of the Elven-king will still stand for centuries to come — a remembrance of the Wood-elves in Middle-earth.' I feel true solace in Eryn Lasgalen for the first time since I heard the gulls at Pelargir; now that I am about to fulfil my Sea-longing at last, I am able to feel the peace of the woods one last time.

'You lived happily here, lad,' Gimli surmises.

'I did,' I agree. 'But all things must end, I'm afraid.' I press my hand to Adar's branched throne as though it is an old friend — and indeed, it is. 'My fair Greenwood is now no more than a closed chapter of my life; Ithilien is another chapter newly closed, and I must open a new one. The world changes, but we move on.' I let my hand trail, tracing the precise contours of the throne although I have committed every detail to memory already. 'I am the last Elf in Middle-earth, Gimli.' The last of my kin in Ithilien sailed earlier this year. 'Once I leave, there will be no more Eldar here, and our race will fade in the minds of Men.'

'In the minds of Men maybe, but Dwarves have long memories,' he comments.

'Indeed. And even when Dwarves forget, these Halls will hold our memory here for as long as they stand, and beyond — our presence will always linger in these woods, and the woods of Ithilien. Eldarion will remember us, and his bloodline will pass on the stories of the Firstborn for as long as they rule. I am content.'

I let my hand fall, and take in one last gaze. Adar's presence still fills these rooms, but I will soon see the real thing. My soul sings at the thought, and I bid farewell to Eryn Lasgalen, my beloved Greenwood, with a light heart.

We make good time on our way to the Grey Havens. Gimli is two hundred and sixty-two — well past the average lifespan of his race — but he is as sturdy and hardy as ever, and he seems comfortable enough on Aranarth. It is near the end of spring when we reach the shipyards. They lie deserted and silent, of course — the Sea-elves who took care of this place have long sailed.

'Ah, I forgot!' exclaims Gimli. 'We must build our own boat.'

'It will not take long,' I assure him as I slide off Aranarth. 'I have studied shipbuilding since I heard the call of the Sea; I knew I would be the last of my people to leave.'

Gimli dismounts also, and I release Aranarth. He gallops away, his majestic mane tossing in the wind.

'Noble king indeed,' Gimli remarks as the stallion disappears into the horizon; I am not surprised to learn that he knows what the Elvish name means. 'You named him well.'

'He was named after Aragorn,' I reply. The pain of Estel's death has not gone away in six months, but at least I no longer have to suffer the pain of the Sea-longing together with it.

Gimli nods in understanding, and then he rests his axe firmly on the ground. 'Come, Legolas — if we're going to build this ship before summer, we should get started.'

'You need not help me, Gimli — I can build the ship by myself,' I assure him.

'You very well will not,' the Dwarf scoffs. 'I'll not stand idly by while you build our transport only to die cursing you when it sinks in the sea.'

I raise my eyebrow. 'Do you not trust me to build a seaworthy vessel?'

'I'd trust you with anything, lad, but I'll sail easier if I know I helped build the vessel myself. You are not the only one who knows something about shipbuilding.'

I laugh merrily at his familiar bantering tone, because it is how I know that he loves me. If Gimli Glóin's son does not insult you, you are not his friend. (Of course, he insults his enemies also; there is a very fine line.) 'Very well, Gimli, we will build our ship together.'

With Gimli's help, it takes less than a week to build our small ship. I still grieve for Aragorn, but my heart rejoices that I am finally fulfilling its desire to sail. I had not realised how difficult my resistance had been until I felt the weight lift from my soul.

At last, the ship is ready, and Gimli and I roll it out to sea and board it. I am laughing, giddy with excitement, and gayer than I have been in months.

'Ready, Gimli?' I ask, my eyes alight with joy. Gimli smiles to see me so happy.

'Aye, lad.'

I cut the string that anchors us, and the Sea-breeze immediately fills our sails. And my heart forgets its sorrows and losses, and flies with the wind and the Sea. I am sailing! At long last I am sailing! The Sea beckons, divine and crystal, and I am sailing.

Time ceases to have meaning on the shining waves of the Sea. I know not how long we have been sailing before I catch my first glimpse of the glittering white shore of Valinor. It is gorgeous, more beautiful than I've ever imagined, and it fills a yearning I didn't know I had with overwhelming tranquility.

'Gimli, can you see? Can you see Valinor?'

My Dwarf obligingly peers over the bow of our ship, squinting through the glare of the sun. After several moments he gives up and shakes his head. 'Tis too far off yet, laddie. My eyes are not as keen as yours.'

'Keep looking, Gimli, and tell me when you first see it. It is so beautiful!'

Gimli chuckles as he watches me dance about the deck. 'I've never seen you so giddy, Elf. Any Dwarf would think you are drunk.'

'If I am drunk, it is not on ale, my friend.' I turn my eyes back to the welcoming shoreline, which is nearer now. There is an Elf walking along the beach; he waves excitedly at me, and I recognise him instantly. 'Elrohir!' I exclaim.

'Mae govannen, Legolas!' Elrond's son shouts back, his wonderfully familiar voice floating over the waves to us. As our ship draws closer to shore, I can see him more clearly; he turns and hastily calls to someone further inland, and I know full well who it is.

Sure enough, Elrohir is quickly joined by his brother; at this distance they truly are impossible to tell apart, but I know it is Elladan's voice which yells, 'Legolas! Nae saian luume', mellon-nin!' (9)

'Cormamin lindua ele lle, Elrondionnath!' I call back gaily. (10)

Now that I can see both Elladan and Elrohir eagerly awaiting my arrival, I become aware of time once again, and it feels as if I cannot reach the shore quickly enough. The journey over the Sea has been absolutely splendid, and it more than satisfied the Sea-longing within me — but now I yearn for the land, for Valinor, and for the friends I have missed. It seems to be an age before the ship finally touches the beach, and before it has stopped moving I have leapt off the deck and am embracing the twins.

'Nae saian luume', Legolas Thranduilion,' Elladan repeats. (11)

'Indeed, we were beginning to wonder if we would ever see you here,' Elrohir adds.

I laugh merrily; they are exaggerating, as usual. 'Untruthful as always, mellyn-nin. It has barely been two decades — nay, not even that!'

'You wound us, Legolas,' claims Elrohir. 'We genuinely wondered — especially after the last of your subjects from Ithilien arrived. Elladan and I began to speculate whether or not you were quite stubborn enough to be the only Elf in Middle-earth. We certainly didn't expect you to sail all by yourself.'

'Indeed,' Elladan agrees. 'In fact, Legolas, I am surprised you made it this far with no one to talk to during the voyage.'

'Oh, but I did not sail alone,' I say lightly.

'I'm glad that you remember that,' Gimli says irately from the deck. 'Your hospitality is sorely lacking, Thranduilion — you invite me to sail with you and abandon me the first chance you get! Come up here and set up the gangplank, you blasted Elf, so I can get down!'

'As you wish, Gimli!' I hurry to do as he has demanded, and moments later he is disembarking, he and I both revelling in the identical expressions of shock on the twins' faces.

'You brought the Dwarf?!' Elladan exclaims, looking askance at Gimli. 'Eru, Legolas — I know not whether to be amazed or horrified!'

'Then do not think about it, and welcome us both to Valinor,' I suggest. 'Unless I am very much mistaken, your daernaneth would like to see this Dwarf.'

'Aye, and this Dwarf would like to see her,' Gimli interjects.

'On your own head be it,' Elrohir mutters. 'Come then, we will escort you to the Lady of the Golden Wood.'

'She is still known by that name?' I ask in surprise as we follow the twins up the beach.

'Of course,' Elladan answers. 'She has her own woods here, more beautiful than Lothlórien.'

A thought occurs to me, and I hardly dare to hope. 'Is there also a version of Greenwood here?'

'Aye. You will love it, Legolas. Your adar and naneth have been preparing it for your arrival for decades.'

I feel a rush of excitement; Elladan looks knowingly at me, but then his face sobers.

'Since you have finally come, I presume Estel has…'

The part of my heart that still holds Aragorn throbs, and I close my eyes. 'Aye.'

Elladan and Elrohir nod, and keep their gazes straight. They say no more.

(9) 'It has been too long, my friend!'
(10) 'My heart sings to see you, sons of Elrond!'
(11) 'It has been too long.'Mellyn-nin: My friends.
Daernaneth: Grandmother.

Lady Galadriel looks even more like a queen in her new realm, and she glows with pleasure when she lays eyes on us.

'Welcome, Legolas Greenleaf, last of all Elves,' she greets me with a smile, which widens when she turns to Gimli. 'And welcome, Gimli Glóin's son — truly, I had not expected such a marvellous surprise! Is it you I have to thank, Legolas?'

'Aye, my lady,' agrees Gimli. 'Were it not for this pointy-eared princeling, I would not have had the opportunity to behold your fair beauty again.'

The elven queen laughs brightly and sweetly; I had forgotten just how much Galadriel loved Gimli's compliments. 'My thanks, Thranduilion. Rest assured you have not erred in bringing Gimli; never has there been a Dwarf more deserving of Valinor.'

'Hannon le, Galadriel-rodel. Vanimle síla ui-tiri.' (12) I am shocked by the Elvish words coming out of the Dwarf's mouth — when did he learn to speak thus?

'Truly, you are a gem among Dwarves, Gimli,' Galadriel compliments. 'I will see you again, I have no doubt; but for now, Legolas, your family awaits.'

Elladan and Elrohir take their grandmother's hint and usher us out, leading us along the woodland paths until we reach the part of the forest where Ada and Nana dwell. And there, in a Hall similar to and yet different from the one we left behind in Middle-earth, is the most beautiful sight in all of Arda: my naneth, standing whole and well and radiant, her arms open to welcome me.

'Nana!' I cry as I race toward her; and at that moment I am, once again, a little elfling of two hundred and thirty-six.

She fusses over me, my naneth — over how much I've grown and how proud she is of me and how happy she is that I have finally sailed — and gladly I let her do it. I have missed her much, these two thousand years.

'Legolas.'

Nana releases me and I go to clasp Adar's shoulder. 'Vedui', Ada. I have sailed at last.' (13)

To my surprise, Adar does not grasp my shoulder in return, but instead pulls me into a rare hug. Thranduil has mellowed here in Valinor; his eyes shine openly with the light of love and he is more carefree. His family is reunited (I spy someone who could only be my Daeradar, Oropher, standing near the throne in the Hall) and Adar is at long last, at peace.

'And who might this be?' Naneth asks gaily, observing Gimli, who has been careful to stay in a corner.

Before I can answer, Adar says, 'This is Gimli, son of Glóin, Legolas' best friend.'

'A Dwarf?' Naneth glances at Adar, amused, and I know why; Adar's general indifference towards Dwarves is infamous.

'He is better than most,' Adar allows.

'Welcome, Master Gimli,' Naneth greets. 'My husband tells me you have saved our son's life on many occasions. You have my thanks.'

'No thanks necessary, my lady-queen,' Gimli replies gruffly. 'Your son has saved my life just as many times — and dare I say, but for the difference in our blood, we are brothers.'

Naneth casts a knowing look my way. 'So I see.'

Elladan and Elrohir have unobtrusively slipped away some time since, and I bask in the joy and light that surrounds this Greenwood. My family is here, whole and together; Gimli, my dear friend, is with me in the Undying Lands; and Valinor is indeed a wondrous and beautiful place. And slowly but surely, I feel the shattered pieces of my heart begin to mend, and I am able to think of Aragorn and Arwen and all those I have lost without pain for the first time in over a century.

(12) 'Thank you, Lady Galadriel . Your beauty shines ever bright.'
(13) 'Greetings, Ada.'

Gimli dies in his sleep less than two years later, at the very respectable age (for a Dwarf) of two hundred and sixty-five. I bury him in the tiny plot of land to the south of Valinor, where Bilbo and Frodo and Sam already rest. My heart throbs with the familiar grief, but I do not cry; I knew when I brought Gimli here that he was very near the end of his time — even in the Undying Lands mortals do not live forever. Such is the Gift of Men.

'Well, Gimli, mellon-nin,' I speak to his grave, pretending that somewhere, in the afterlife of Dwarves, he may hear me, 'it has come to this. I am the last of our Fellowship, the only one left to remember the great deeds we accomplished. I cannot tell you how much it grieves me that you are all gone, Gimli, but I will not weep for you, because I know you are at peace. You deserve your rest, old friend. Thank you for staying with me this far.'

I pause as my eyes rove to the other memorials in this burial site. Frodo and Sam's graves stand side by side, with Bilbo's situated on Frodo's other side. I chose to bury Gimli next to Sam; the Dwarf and that Hobbit shared a fondness for food and cooking that far surpassed what the rest of us appreciated, save Merry and Pippin. There are four graves here, but I remember many more.

'Never fear, my friends, I will remember each and every one of you,' I promise them. 'It may be a curse that Elves live so long, but at least I have the memories of all of you to cherish throughout all my years. You gave me such friendship, such love, such happiness, that I am certain I can last as long as the Valar have decreed. Mortal you were, but immortal you will be in the heart and soul of Legolas Greenleaf.' There are tears in my eyes now, but they are tears of joy, not grief. I have learned much. 'And, perhaps, Arwen,' I say to the lost daughter of Elrond, 'perhaps you were right, and we will meet again upon the breaking of the world. I truly have no idea if we will, but I hope that we do.'

A gull flies overhead, cawing its delight at the lovely morning. The last time I heard the gulls, they awakened a pain of longing inside me. Today, there is no longing, only gentle acceptance of the natural course of events.

'And even if we do not,' I continue with absolute certainty, 'I am glad that we met in Middle-earth.'

I stand there for a long time, feeling the breeze upon my face, closing my eyes and simply remembering my mortal friends who taught me so much, and finally made me understand the Gift of Men. It is not death — it was never death. Elves — perhaps because we have so much time — tend to brood and mourn for long periods of time; that is why it is not uncommon for us to fade from grief. Mortals have no such proclivity. The Gift of Men is their ability to be happy in the short span they have to live, and to go with peace when their days end. Elf I am, but through my friends — through Aragorn, Arwen, Gimli, Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin, Éomer, Faramir, Éowyn — I too was blessed with that same Gift of Men, and I am proud of it.

But above all else, I had deep and true friendships, which will withstand the test of time even though my friends have all passed. For however short a time, I had the best friends in all of Arda — and that is a gift worth remembering.

I am an Elf, and I shall remember. I will hold their memories in my heart for eternity…and in this way, none of us shall ever die.

Hannon le, mellyn-nin.

A/N: The following is a list of some dates and ages that might help with your understanding of the timeline in the fic. All of them, except Éowyn's (whose death date is not listed anywhere in canon) were taken from the LOTR wikia.

Legolas - born TA 831

Éomer - died FO 63, age 93

Merry and Pippin - died FO 65, age 103 and 95

Éowyn - died FO 72, age 98

Faramir - died FO 82, age 120

Aragorn - died FO 120, age 210

Arwen - died FO 121, age 2901

Gimli - departed to Valinor FO 121; died FO 123, age 265

This might be the most emotional piece I've ever done. I hope it touched you the way I wanted it to. Thanks so much for reading. Let me know what you think by reviewing.