The End
You have come to journey's end, sleep now…
He twitches in my arms. His face contorts in pain. He clenches my hands like a life-line as he struggles to keep his head above the rising tide of red. I hold him to my chest, unable to see the pain that shimmers in his eyes, and rock him slowly like I did when he was a babe.
He retches violently. Hot liquid trickles down my neck. He clenches my hands like a life-line as he battles with Mandos. I smooth his once- golden locks back from his face, crooning lullabies in his ear, like I did when he was afraid.
He sighs against my chest. My heart beats alone. He clenched my hand like a life-line but has let go now. I clutch him close to me; he shudders once and is still, as I scream my pain to the Valar.
My son, my beautiful boy whose mere presence brightened any place in Arda that he graced his appearance with and chased away the shadow and doubt in my mind. He was my beacon, my hope, my life. He was my son.
He was more precious to me than all the jewels the world could ever offer me. Yet I did not realize it until too late; until he was torn from me in the bitterness and hatred of war.
A scream pierces the air on the battlefield. No mine- all my screams are echoing the in the ears of Eru. A man falls to his knees beside me, screaming my son's name. The word lodges in my heart. The man begs in a mixture of Westeron and Sindarian, the grey tongue harsh and unfamiliar in its unnaturally high pitch. All the while he screams my son's name.
He strokes the once golden hair away from the stone cold face, he fumbles for a nonexistent pulse in a stiffening wrist, and he presses two fingers next to empty windpipes, searching for proof to deny the agonizing truth.
My son is dead.
A crowd gathers around us, many men shedding tears for the lost soul. A man garbed in white pushes forward, flanked by three men who would be children if we did not know better; the small ones fall to their knees beside us, begging the same pleas that form the language of this world.
A heavy, warm hand rests on my armored shoulder. I lean my head into the side of Mithrandir's leg and he shifts his hand to the side of my head that I still bared to the world. He rubs my cheek with a familiar, calloused hand. "Thranduil…"
The dam bursts and my tears fall. I weep into the soft cotton, my body racked with sobs. The man- Aragorn- cries with me, uncaring of his new reputation in the minds of his new men; in my mind, he is stronger than anyone if he can let his grief for a brother show. All the while, I hold my son close, like a babe clinging to a mother's hand.
Mithrandir rubs circles on my cheek with his thumb, his calloused hands more familiar and comforting than my father's ever were; I cannot help but think about the relationship I had with my son, and the chance I will never have to right the wrong.
Elrond's twin sons skid to their knees beside our rag-tag, grief-stricken group, all decorum and etiquette flung to the winds. They scream and beg and plead in a way not unlike how we were weeping but moments ago. One twin- Elladan, I believe- is holding his younger twin in an embrace, his eyes glazed yet agony is the only light that shines from his eyes. Elrohir cries and weeps inconsolably- he and Estel, out of everyone gathered here are the only people who can claim they know Legolas Thranduilion; I sure as Morgoth can't.
Middle Earth has lost a magnificent soul, one which can never be replaced. He commanded respect from anyone he met. He led armies without a care for his well-being. He was the ear for the down-trodden and alone, the shield for the broken and oppressed. He was my son, and didn't acknowledge any of his qualities until now.
But it is too late now.
He has come to his journey's end. His part in the tale has been finished. All he can do now is sleep.
Valar knows he deserves it.