Cover To Our Bones

The moon is colder, now, than in my youth. The stars are more distant, receding in the firmament like the tide. And what sunlight penetrates the growth of ages around me feels somehow less; not so full, or so real as once it was.

For my sun set in years gone by, now so long ago that even the trees and the winds and the bones of the mountains have forgotten. Years innumerable I watched over my kingdom; saw it grow, kept it safe, felt it die. One by one, as they felt themselves begin to fade, they left. Whether on horses, on barges, or on foot, all made their way to the West and the journey Home. All but myself.

I knew I would not find her there, waiting for me beneath the ivory spires and pearl gates of the city of the Gods. Her suffering had been so great, that not even her mighty spirit could have taken flesh once more; thus she will stay forever bound within the halls of Mandos, waiting to exist again, in vain.

And so, I remained, vanguard of my race. The last of the Eldar, be they Noldor, Sindar or Silvan, to walk upon this Middle-Earth. The burden of ushering the world of Men into being over the bones of one long since perished fell to me, and it is a duty I have seen through to its end. For the forest, endured though it has through countless, sleepless years and the rise and fall of infinite Ages, is dying, and so – at last – am I.

As I close the doors to my Kingdom for the last time, these leaves that brush into my silent halls at my feet are not the bright and beautiful green which gave the woods their name, nor honoured my kin. They crunch, they crack, and fade into nothingness beneath my gait. Like the passing of their fullness, so I feel my own life running thin; I had years, thousands of years, of grace, and youth, and beauty – all gone, withered, passed into the West with the glory of my house.

It was only long after my spirit had aged to such an extent that I no longer even felt alive that my body caught up; lines on the face, weakness in the senses, a struggle for breath. And as the pains increased, so my Kingdom became smaller and smaller, limited by the range of its King. The forest-tops were first to go, so far beyond the reach of these old hands. Then the dungeons, and the caves beneath them, and the river that runs through it – deep, deep beneath the Earth, where only the young and strong dare tread.

This last of my many Ages has finally seen the golden heritage of the Vanyar grey like ashes in the stream, pouring down like smoke from the fiery mountain. And upon my chin, too, the first hairs grown by one of the Eldar since Círdan and his many years. Such a singular sight, Fate would have it, would be the last of my long life. The dragon-fire, at long last, won out, and after millennia of golden sunrises and silver nights the shadows finally fell, deep and dark and total. But I have walked these halls a thousand generations of Men, and each step, each turn and dip and rise is as clear and obvious to me as the pattern of my own thoughts, as sure as my memories.

Memories.

There are years gone from my mind, without hope of recall. Some push themselves to the forefront of my mind, as though a part of my younger self lives yet and begs me to remember; I see Dwarves, and spiders, and snow. I see her. I love her, still. But I forgot her name centuries ago.

I remember the boy. A child of golden hair, as fair as his mother, who grew to be greater than his father. He, too, left aeons ago. I hope I told him that I was proud.

Let me grip with what little strength I have left to the roots that have consumed my halls. The throne is twenty-six paces ahead of me. The beats of my heart have seemed somewhat strained of late; as though I were forever on the cusp of battle, standing beside my father as he held the line against Morgoth's abominations. Hand over hand, foot over shambling foot, let me strive and climb to reach my throne. Ignore the pain that rises from the joints and the acid tang of fatigue in my throat.

This world is just too much, now. Too much of everything. The Men have spread and multiplied across the face of all the Earth, in thousands raised to thousands raised to thousands more. I can almost feel them, all their lives and pains and horrors – of which there have been so, so many. War, death on scales unimaginable. Like the Dark Foe of my childhood, they have industrialised the process; their forges work night and day producing weapons beyond the terror of any Orc.

I must not give in. Not now. The throne is fifteen paces away. I have done my duty. I have overseen the transition of the world of Elves into the world of Men. And while our world was one of peace and coexistence with Eru's creation, they seek to break it anew and create a second Udûn from its shards. Thus is the doom of Men – they do not understand. Perhaps, they never shall. But that is no longer my concern.

Get up, old man. To your feet. Climb the stairs. Eight steps, and rest. Do you hear it? Life, and joy, and colour returned to Mirkwood. Behind you, your subjects applaud and pay obeisance to their King. Far beneath you, the river runs in full flood, bringing in wine and gems. Life is good, and for ever.

Legolas…that was his name. He is beside the throne. He smiles, offering his hand. You are old. He's helping you home. You are tire. Sit down. Rest.

Another darkness is covering my sight. Deeper, blacker than the shadows of blindness. I can feel the last of the leaves dying outside. This dead forest will be swallowed by the world outside, and none shall ever remember we were here.

So old.

So very, very tired.

"...Nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings."

Richard II, Act III Scene II