Disclaimer: If I owned LotR, the Hobbit movie would have been out two years ago.
As the silvery rain began to fall, a tall, slender figure made its slow way up the stone steps to the top of the great wall surrounding the citadel. Legolas looked out over the Pelennor, its usually green fields dyed stormy gray by the darkened sky. Sighing, he slid his hands out of the warm folds of his cloak and removed his hood. Cool rain bathed his face, and the elf breathed in deeply. As he stood watching, a horse and rider galloped through the gate beneath him, heading for the north. Green eyes followed the lone horsewoman.
"Namarië, Undómiel," Legolas whispered, lifting an arm in farewell. He was not surprised. He had known this was coming. Known it for the last two days, ever since . . . Ever since Aragorn's passing.
The thought was excruciatingly painful. Shaking his head to rid himself of it, the elf turned to walk along the wall. There was not much time; Gimli would be coming to find him soon. But a short respite still remained for Legolas to be left alone with his memories. He strode purposefully although his mind was lost in the past.
How many years had it been? Over a century. Over a century of living in or near Minas Tirith. Over a century of adventures and trials, of great joy and terrible disappointments. It had been a good century. Certainly more exciting than others he had known, spent more or less peacefully underneath the green boughs of Mirkwood. For a century, Legolas had lived with his two greatest friends and held the siren call of the Sea at bay. With the death of Aragorn, however, all things had changed.
Aragorn had not sat patiently waiting for death to come. As was ever his wont, the King had chosen for himself. A few words here and there had hinted to Legolas that the end was near. Soon his friend would be gone.
Once, many years ago, Legolas would never have believed it. Death had been an abstract concept, something he heard mentioned by his father and the elders. Even after the Battle of the Five Armies, he had not completely understood it. Although he was over a thousand years old, King Thranduil had not taken his youngest son to help the Lakemen and claim Smaug's treasure, an insult that smarted for three decades. When the elf hosts returned, sadly lessened, Legolas knew the soldiers had died, but having never seen death personally, he still did not get it. Until Gandalf fell and Boromir was shot by orcs. Then the reality of death came crashing down.
But now, now that he had seen so much and watched more deaths than he could properly remember, Legolas quietly accepted the reality of his friend's death. It was Aragorn's choice, after all. Arwen begged her husband not to leave his people; Legolas could not bring himself to do the same. Instead, he set about building a ship. The ship he had dreamed about since the War of the Ring. When Aragorn passed on, then would be the time to finally set sail.
"Excuse me, sir, but no one is allowed on the walls by order of . . . Oh. I beg your pardon, my lord Legolas," the captain of the guard amended hastily. The elf glanced at him once and continued walking. Shuddering, the man watched him as he left. Nearly every morning, for as long as the captain could remember, the King had walked along the city walls with his two friends for company. The Three Hunters had spoken in soft voices one to another, but occasionally laughter rang out, wild and uncontrolled. Now, the man realized sadly, those strolls were ended. The King had gone, and grief and mourning ruled Minas Tirith.
As for Legolas, he forgot the captain as soon as he passed him. He began walking faster and faster. Deep in his heart lurked a terrible sorrow that not even the rain could numb. Legolas came to another stairway and descended quickly. The elf wandered through the streets of Minas Tirith, remembering his first day in the city. Eventually he came to Rath Dinen. Respectful guards bowed to him as he entered the Street of the Dead. Not seeing them, Legolas sped up even more and hastened to the tomb of the kings. Shivering, he hurried down the long aisle of sarcophagi and effigies, coming at last to that of his friend.
Legolas let out a sigh of relief and gazed long upon Aragorn's face. All thoughts had left him now. Nothing but sorrow and silence remained. Time stood still in that peaceful place until a gruff voice startled him out of his reverie.
"Thought I'd find you here." Gimli put a hand on the elf's arm. "The ship's ready. Everything has been loaded. Are you sure that thing can carry us across the sea?"
His friend snorted softly. "Of course. And you still want to come with me?"
"There's nothing left here for me, laddie. Or for you." Gimli glanced at Aragorn's effigy. "He's at peace. We're the last of the Fellowship. We ought to stick together. If you're going to this elf place across the sea, that's good enough for me. That is, if you still want me?"
"Always." Legolas exhaled deeply. Part of him didn't want to sail to Tol Eressëa. It wanted to stay right there with his dead friend. But Aragorn would have been the first to haul him to the wharf against his will, throw him in the boat, and toss the mooring line in after. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips at the mental images that thought produced.
"Well, then . . . It's time to go." Gimli led the way out of the tomb, through the wet city streets, and down to the Harlond. Legolas followed silently, taking everything in for the last time. As they reached the quay, the screams of seagulls became louder and louder. Gimli clambered awkwardly into the ship with his friend's help. The elf stood a moment longer on the wooden pier. Then he gave in at last to the call of the gulls and bent down to untie the ship from her moorings.
"Namarië," he murmured to the city, shoving off and climbing aboard with his customary grace. Rain coursing down his face, Legolas took the tiller. Wind filled the ship's sails, and they were off. "Namarië, mellon nin."
Fin.
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