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He watched as his wife cradled their son gently in her arms, the babe gurgling softly as his chubby arms extended to grab a lock of her honey coloured locks.
Feeling his eyes on her, the elleth turned and favoured him with a small smile, handing her precious cargo to her husband. And she watched as his azure eyes softened, the facial features losing the last remnants of pain in their youthful appearance, as the Wood Elf drank in the sight of his child thirstily.
She knew that it was times such as this that he forgot all the pains of his past, and indulged in the present, and dared to hope for the feature. For his kind, those who had travelled Middle-Earth, never truly lost the shadow that had lingered over their lives for thousands of years.
The memories stayed, leaving a bittersweet taste, but they were cherished nonetheless, for he was past those times, past old friendships and ancient reigns of rule, and time flowed on regardless of immortality.
Her son, such a startling likeness to his warrior father, began to cry, and her husband began to rock him, singing an Elven lullaby softly. The babe quieted down, and the Wood Elf reached out and picked up an acorn lying on the parchment littered desk. The child reached for it, and the Elf relinquished the acorn to his inquisitive son, moving the ancient seed away from the child's mouth when the Elfling attempted to gnaw upon it.
The babe hiccupped occasionally, but was soothed as he held the acorn tightly in his fist, letting sleep overcome him in lulling waves as his father's smooth tenor sang an old Rohirric melody, which the elleth knew he had learnt years ago, and the scents of trees and the earth filled the air. Breathing deeply, the babe closed his blue eyes and sighed contentedly.
Still singing, the father smiled gently and ran a callused finger over the babe's cheeks, and down his arm, stopping at the fisted hand, and tracing the rough ridges of the acorn held in the babe's grasp.
Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he still stood beneath the great trees of the Greenwood.
He could still smell that unique scent of wood and leaves, those forest smells that had soothed him to sleep in early years first as an Elfling, and then as a hardened warrior fighting the poison coursing through his veins.
He strained his ears and caught the wind rustling through leaves, which fell and grew as seasons came and went – a never-ending cycle of continuity, of rebirth. He could hear the soft crunch of leaves as woodland creatures scurried across its leaf-strewn ground.
If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the earth in his hands, feel the moisture and softness, bringing to him the perfume of the land. He could recall fondly the many trees that had taken root and flourished from this nurturing soil.
He could run his hands over the rough bark of old oaks, bearing the wisdom of ages, their skin wrinkled with age. He could test the smoothness of young saplings, feeling in them the fragility of youth, but strength that lay hidden, dormant, for their roots ran deep, and come rain or storm, these trees would survive.
And then his eyes would snap open, and he would feel the loss once again.
Turning to the East, he would yearn for that which he left behind, holding, stroking, in his hands, the last physical link he had of the Woodland Realm.
The fairest had laid her life down, her physical body to be caressed and covered by green life upon Cerin Amroth. Her spirit to join her beloved where he could not venture.
There was nothing for him left, and it was time for him to heed the call.
But he could not leave so eagerly, no matter how much the Sea called, and how much his heart yearned to depart, for part of his soul still lay anchored here, in Middle-Earth.
They waited for him at the Grey Havens, and he knew that they would wait for as long as needed.
He rode west, but stopped at his father's lands, now devoid of life, empty save for the ancient trees, gnarled, twisted, and still utterly beautiful to the Wood Elf's eyes.
He walked beneath the large trees of his youth, their leaves falling gently, travelling where the wind would take them.
He walked in the woods and spoke no words, but said his goodbyes.
He was of high blood, yet his soul was like that of a Wood Elf. Their bonds and ties to the earth were perhaps the strongest and most lasting. Already, the wood wilted with the loss of their former inhabitants, seemingly mourning their departure. And now, the last of their kind prepared to leave these shores.
He could not linger, but he took the time to appreciate the woods he had called home for over three thousand years.
He walked the mountain halls of his father, the walls of stone no longer glimmering in torchlight, the air was musty and lingered of forgotten memories. He passed his old room, stopping a moment to fondly recall the dark green walls and simple elegant design. He entered his father's study, somehow wishing that he could see those tiresome stacks of parchment that used to litter that leather covered surface.
But then he turned and left, leaving behind all that had been for all that will be, for he could not linger. But he stooped to gently pick an acorn that had fallen from its perch in the leafy treetops of the ancient guardians, which had watched him grow and mature.
Cradling this small treasure in his hand, the Elf finally mounted his steed and turned to the West. He boarded his grey vessel, and watched as land disappeared rapidly with his ship headed towards home before he faced West resolutely. But nothing could stem those tears slipping down his cheeks as he left behind a piece of his soul and heart, and carried away a lasting memory of home.
Fin