Remember
A/N: This is my first fic in the LotR fandom. That doesn't mean that I don't expect you to flame me if it sucks; that means I want tips if it sucks. Touching or cheesey? Let me know and review! I know this topic's probably ver-done, but it'll have to do.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story.
In the distance, high atop a green hill, the double ring of trees grew onward, though no one was left to occupy them, save the birds. In the other direction, Nimrodel coursed still south, though from this vantage point, it could not be heard or seen. Softly, a voice would sing the words most associated with that water in the Elven tongue, as he had been long before he arrived. Those lyrics were not yet forsaken in his realm, yet they were not so far from this.
This, too, was his realm, and he held it dear, but it was only at dawn this morn that he had come to it. He had traveled swiftly, for he was driven with the vigor of the Eldar and the eagerness of youth. For the whole of his short life, he had yearned to see with the eyes Cerin Amroth.
He sat upon the earth, looking fainly at the plentiful blossoms: dainty yellow ones shaped as stars and swaying ones as white as them. A noble countenance was lifted to take in the broader view again, resting on that very place which would be his mother's grave in the future.
It would take a greater amount of years, but this land would die, in a sense. It would cease to be a living thing, animated by the magic dwelling deep in it, not akin to blood, but to a soul. The trees would thrive still, but those with golden leaves would give way to their common brethren. Perhaps the nimphredil would continue blooming, but it would duel with briers and furze. It would fade.
No, the land and that which grew from it and that which lived on it had sprung from the Ainur's music, and that would resound eternally. Lórien, with the power of Nenya and the Elven race, was reminded of this so it could hum that melody, for want of the words.
Eldarion understood this, accepted it. He mourned no less.
This was his mother's home, but she had declined to return. Arwen had known Lórien before this, and with her grandmother's mirror, had glimpsed Laurelindorinan. he, however, was not dissapointed. It was more than either of his parents, or any of the Elves in Ithilien, had conveyed.
Half a week later, he was resting once again on the banks of Nimrodel, for it rapidly became his favorite location in all of the land. There had been no one to welcome him,--Any remaining Elves were hidden, somewhere in the north.--but the stories Arwen and Elessar had told him of the stream made it familiar to him.
He tried to imagine what a younger Evenstar might have been musing over beside Nimrodel, but he would never know. Even as a child, he realized their minds were not the same. Though a mortal, the world still flowed for Arwen, and she could practically live in her past or future simply by changing her mindset. For him, time was split into isolated periods, linked together, and not without seam. He himself was the one changing.
Eldarion could know what Aragorn's thoughts may have been, but he was unable to truly empathize. Born into safety, he did not recognize Lórien as a haven when he crossed the threshold. Having never been parted for beauty long, the marvels of the golden land lost of their effect. Without loving someone as Aragorn did his wife, and without threat to that bond, he couldn't feel what his father had.
He did experience awe, not the sort which elevated a person, but the sort that quietly filled them so that they would always look back on it. He felt affection, protective, and guilty in a way. It would be severl score of years until he was worthy to lay claim to this place.
Despite this, he had failed to dispel the lachrymose sorrow he felt. It ailed his heart that all that he cherished would diminsh until it was no more, and then it would finally falter in the minds of the people, of the royalty, of the scholars, of Arda. There would be Elven children born who would learn it, but care nothing for what was, just as his mother valued the Two Trees only as her heritage.
A pair of eyes, grey like the sky washed clean, turned West. Evereve innumerable leagues away, he loved for the hope it represented, the ultimate promise of security, yet he felt nothing but a faint sensation of desire, and realized that it was for the wrong reasons.
Distracting him, a leaf descended languidly before settling on the crystalline water. He watched it keenly as it was carried away, and dreamt that it would sail aloft the waves and across the Sundering Sea to be reunited with it's ilk in Valinor. It was nothing but fancy, yet pleasant.
He was calmed; he did not have to listen in order to feel the attraction to the water, the connection to everything surrounding him. So long as Men could do this, Lórien would live in them.