Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all associated characters are owned by JRR Tolkien. I am not Tolkien. I'm sure there's a link between the two.
The Last Will and Testament of Aragorn Elessar
Testing.
Testing.
Testing.
Ah, there we go. For a moment there, I thought Legolas really did carry out his threat to liberate all my good quills. Silly Wood Elves with their obsessive compulsive naturalist tendencies. Everyone knows it's the defenseless garden weeds that really need saving.
If you are reading this letter, it means that I am no longer on this Middle Earth. If you are Elladan, Elrohir or Legolas and are reading this letter, it means that you have descended to new lows in invading my privacy, which implies that you will not remain on this Earth for much longer. Either way, you will not be getting a response in the physical sense, barring necromancy, foresight, and that odd little bowl Galadriel uses to play Bingo. Or see momentous events in the past, present and future; I forget which.
As High King of Gondor, it seems imperative that I pass on my legacy in the most accurate manner possible. The words that follow shall be the most riveting to have ever made their mark in this Age, so Bilbo Baggins can start sporadically chewing his toe-hair out right now. The Little Book of Kingsmarch was not good enough eh? Ungrateful Halfling…after all the times I almost-kind of-sort of-killed; errr…after I helped Frodo, you'd think that his uncle would waive the copyright laws just a little, but noooo. He didn't even include that three-hundred page essay I sent him on 'The Perils of Estel and the Thumb Wart'. Now no one has a clue what I did after the War, barring daisy-plucking with Legolas and the occasional man-tussle with Éomer. Honestly! I have a wife and children for Eru's sake! Bravo on spreading that rumour about Rangers and their wild ways, Bilbo. You succeeded in fatally slaughtering an already maimed reputation. But at least I'll die with the knowledge that Arwen's with me, and not some senile old fart who ritualistically sacrifices relatives to toothpicks.
Anyway, onto to the division of my assets, which basically involves a kind of sadistic Elrond charade on my part as I dump stuff I don't want onto unsuspecting individuals. Feel free to spontaneously self-combust and wish you had sucked up sooner as I roll from my grave to Faramir's and we laugh ourselves silly over a nice hot cup of tea.
To Elrohir and Elladan (not necessarily in that order): You can have my room in Rivendell. Which, unless I am very much mistaken, was thoroughly decontaminated and repainted over a hundred years ago. Isn't it great to know that your family misses you, and will forever cherish the impact you made on their lives? Have fun with the place, dear brothers. I'm sure its vantage point over that discrete bathing spot favoured by the ladies will serve as a minor, trivial, completely insignificant bonus. Just don't tell Arwen or so help me, I will defy the laws of nature, nurture and common sense just to pull your hair out through your ears.
To Legolas: I am sure that you've gotten most of what you want from me already, including that box of honey sweets you've been eyeing since the beginning of the Fourth Age. So, as a parting gift, I'm going to indulge you with this knowledge: it really was me who stole your collection of aromatic twine socks while we were in the Fellowship. And there isn't a thing you can do about it. Hah!
To Elrond: Ah, my dear sweet Ada. The one who thoughtfully sent me to the Black Gates with naught but men as a last attempt to shift my romantic preferences. Has my time spent living indifferently among the Rangers taught you nothing of Isildur's legendary stubbornness? No doubt you have fled Rivendell by the time I finish this. Perhaps you may even go as far as fleeing Middle Earth altogether. But it is no matter. I'm intending to have a very long and fruitful chat with Námo at the first possible opportunity, so you can rest assured that my final tribute to you will not simply stop at a horde of screaming grandchildren. Mull over that, and enjoy your blessed days in the Blessed Realm. While they last.
To Gimli: If you look into my sock drawer, you will discover a rather knobby-looking pair depicting the various postures a hibernating chipmunk can adopt during winter. Unravel them-carefully, mind you; a depressed Nazgûl has taken to living there, and he doesn't like to be disturbed-and you should come across a vaguely golden wad of hair. That is from Galadriel's head; collected from all the times she made me scrub out her bowl for ogling at her granddaughter. Knock yourself out; just don't give yourself a stroke or something. It'll be crowed enough in the Afterlife without you blocking the entrance.
To Sam: In accordance with my 'Save the Weeds' campaign, I have enclosed a few Althelas seeds in that envelope of flyers I sent you. Plant them in a patch of soil and watch them flourish, strangling the life out of all neighboring vegetation. It is such a satisfying plant; much better than that stupid Mallorn tree my grandmother-in-law gave you. Honestly, I can't imagine why anyone would plant that thing; it doesn't even talk back! Not that I tried to start a conversation with one or anything…it was just an observation. A completely random observation. Not based on personal experience. Nope; not at all.
It was totally random.
To Merry and/or Pippin: I had no idea what to give you Hobbits, so I settled on the most obvious solution: food. I will be sending you a complete blueprint of Thranduil's Elvish abode in Mirkwood, complete with the necessary pin numbers and facial expressions you will need to access the kitchens. Remember: just smile and look cute; you won't go wrong. And for crying out loud, exit via the doors, not the underground river. Bilbo always had a thing for pointless theatrics.
To Haldir: I still remember how you used to comment on my personal odour while I was traveling in the Wild. Just to clear things up, I do not stink. Nor have I ever. No matter what They Who Bear the Ethereal Nasal Capacity of the Firstborn may say, you have my assurance that I, Aragorn Elessar; founder of the House of Thorondor, possess none of that alleged stench which has the legendary capability of felling a skunk at a hundred paces. Yes, I was a Ranger; yes, Rangers do have a distinct…earthy aroma about them; but honestly, why in the name of Manwë's thatched hat would I want to decline to such a depreciatory state? It may sound incredible, but there are rivers and lakes in the Wild; some of which are even void of decomposing corpses! I had plenty of opportunities to bathe- at dawn, before fighting Orcs; at noon, while fighting Orcs; at dusk, while plotting about fighting Orcs…Any offending scent that might have been on my person could therefore be attributed to only one cause: Sauron. I mean, what else would a vindictive Maia attempt to do than invade Middle Earth by means of sensory assault? It was a perfect plan: throw off the opposition's defense by employing a hapless Ranger, then strike if the opportunity was ripe. I was an innocent, Haldir! And as punishment for repeatedly censuring an innocent man, I shall see to it that you get my entire Ranger apparel, right down to the boots. I'll have you know that they haven't been washed since I battled the Watcher at Moria. Minty fresh, mellon-nin; just the way you like it.
To Gandalf: I just wanted to take this space to show you that you were remembered. And then I wanted to move on to demonstrate that you were also deliberately forgotten.
Well, I suppose that is all. Arwen and the children have their entitlement settled already, and anyone who was not included was left out for a reason. I'm an antisocial, yes; but unfortunately I'm also dead, so anyone who has a problem with that can just gnaw on my tomb and hope he gets deep enough for me to notice.
Finally, my epitaph. I was thinking something along the lines of: 'Here lies Elessar, father of many. Aren't you jealous?' Or maybe: 'Aragorn of the Dúnedain. Talented belly dancer. Hastily received, and dearly departed as compensation.' Or: 'Aragorn Elessar, man of many names; none of which belong to the one who owes you money.' Just brainstorming here…
Ah, but knowing Arwen it will probably be something boring like 'Rest in Peace, Estel. Loving husband and noble King. We will remember you fondly.'