Mandatory disclaimer: I do not own any of the LOTR characters, Tolkien
does. The rest are mine.
This takes place after the Ring has been destroyed, my main departure from
canon is that the Elves do not diminish and sail West.
'Ashes'
Chapter One
Clear water gushed through a narrow cleft in the ancient stone wall, spilling in a glittering wash onto a cracked slab of granite, and coming to rest in a wide, still pool. The voice of the falling water filled the vast chamber of naked rock with echoes and murmurs; but there were none to answer them, save one, and he remained silent. Legolas stood on the stony bank of the waterfall's spillway, watching the water as it fell. He picked a smooth stone out of the icy water and squeezed it in his fist, feeling its weight, its coldness.
From far away he could hear the dwarves toasting yet again their triumphant return to their ancestral home; the loud rise of their boasts, the merry cheering. The beer flowed, but Legolas was kinless in such a place, the only one of his kind among the great dwarven company. He sat on the desolate shore with his back to a granite boulder and turned the stone he had picked up over and over in his pale graceful hands.
Moria. Even though the Shadow was falling away from the depths of the mines and the dwarves had returned to rule, the place held no endearment for him. The dense smell of water and earth and metal, the wet tang of the ever present chill left nothing untouched, until all was heavy with its insistent reek. The mountain was like a great, grey cage above and around him, austere even in its most generous beauty, cruel in its sincerest kindness. Legolas sighed, suddenly conscious of the deep exhaustion that had settled in his body. How long had it been, now? The campaign seemed to have already lasted an eternity, the endless dark made time void or pulled it out so that seconds became in themselves, eternities. Moira inexorably crept into him, stole his memories of warmth and light until it was hard to believe that places yet existed in the sun or air. Bit by bit, the dark, the damp, the close air ground him down like sandstone.
If it weren't for his promise, he would had left, long ago. He smirked ruefully, the remembrance was bitter. His promise. A lot of good it did. Leading a campaign that didn't need his leading, for a people who still distrusted him. It had been Gimli's dying wish, for his people to reclaim their once great kingdom, for Legolas to take his place in driving back the Shadow from the mines. This he had done, in Gimli's name, for his friends' memory, and had been met with nothing but indifference and polite distrust. The great deed which he set out to do had, in the end, been as good as nothing. With a mixture of grief and frustration, he threw the stone he held into the water. It splashed once and disappeared but the echo of its splash reverberated in the cavern for a long time.
Legolas sat near the waters' edge and stared into the blackness, letting the sound of the water wash around and through him. It was strangely comforting, even in a place such as this. Slowly, by degrees, he let his senses fall into the sounds until he was no longer conscious of the cold rock under him, the clammy dampness of the air as he breathed it in, breathed it out.
The voice that came to him was so soft, he wasn't sure at first he was hearing it. It blended with the rushing of the water, rising and falling with the cadence of the words that it carried. Legolas sat up and listened more intently, struggling to catch even the barest shiver of the words.
"Moria," the voice sighed feebly, "Mother Moria, at the hour of my death, enfold me in your velvet night. Though my kin abandon me, you will not forsake me, Oh Mother of the Mountains' Heart."
Legolas was standing now, his body as tight as a guy wire as he strained to hear the last gasps of the voice as it faded. His heart was hammering in his throat as he stood, stunned by what he had heard. For the words were in Quenya, ancient Quenya.
'Ashes'
Chapter One
Clear water gushed through a narrow cleft in the ancient stone wall, spilling in a glittering wash onto a cracked slab of granite, and coming to rest in a wide, still pool. The voice of the falling water filled the vast chamber of naked rock with echoes and murmurs; but there were none to answer them, save one, and he remained silent. Legolas stood on the stony bank of the waterfall's spillway, watching the water as it fell. He picked a smooth stone out of the icy water and squeezed it in his fist, feeling its weight, its coldness.
From far away he could hear the dwarves toasting yet again their triumphant return to their ancestral home; the loud rise of their boasts, the merry cheering. The beer flowed, but Legolas was kinless in such a place, the only one of his kind among the great dwarven company. He sat on the desolate shore with his back to a granite boulder and turned the stone he had picked up over and over in his pale graceful hands.
Moria. Even though the Shadow was falling away from the depths of the mines and the dwarves had returned to rule, the place held no endearment for him. The dense smell of water and earth and metal, the wet tang of the ever present chill left nothing untouched, until all was heavy with its insistent reek. The mountain was like a great, grey cage above and around him, austere even in its most generous beauty, cruel in its sincerest kindness. Legolas sighed, suddenly conscious of the deep exhaustion that had settled in his body. How long had it been, now? The campaign seemed to have already lasted an eternity, the endless dark made time void or pulled it out so that seconds became in themselves, eternities. Moira inexorably crept into him, stole his memories of warmth and light until it was hard to believe that places yet existed in the sun or air. Bit by bit, the dark, the damp, the close air ground him down like sandstone.
If it weren't for his promise, he would had left, long ago. He smirked ruefully, the remembrance was bitter. His promise. A lot of good it did. Leading a campaign that didn't need his leading, for a people who still distrusted him. It had been Gimli's dying wish, for his people to reclaim their once great kingdom, for Legolas to take his place in driving back the Shadow from the mines. This he had done, in Gimli's name, for his friends' memory, and had been met with nothing but indifference and polite distrust. The great deed which he set out to do had, in the end, been as good as nothing. With a mixture of grief and frustration, he threw the stone he held into the water. It splashed once and disappeared but the echo of its splash reverberated in the cavern for a long time.
Legolas sat near the waters' edge and stared into the blackness, letting the sound of the water wash around and through him. It was strangely comforting, even in a place such as this. Slowly, by degrees, he let his senses fall into the sounds until he was no longer conscious of the cold rock under him, the clammy dampness of the air as he breathed it in, breathed it out.
The voice that came to him was so soft, he wasn't sure at first he was hearing it. It blended with the rushing of the water, rising and falling with the cadence of the words that it carried. Legolas sat up and listened more intently, struggling to catch even the barest shiver of the words.
"Moria," the voice sighed feebly, "Mother Moria, at the hour of my death, enfold me in your velvet night. Though my kin abandon me, you will not forsake me, Oh Mother of the Mountains' Heart."
Legolas was standing now, his body as tight as a guy wire as he strained to hear the last gasps of the voice as it faded. His heart was hammering in his throat as he stood, stunned by what he had heard. For the words were in Quenya, ancient Quenya.