Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, and I know perfectly well that I cannot even hope to compete with JRR Tolkien, who is practically a god of literature. However, Aerlinniel and Luthien, as well as the personality, if not name, of Eldarion, are my creations.

Authors' Note: Lord of the Rings, in my opinion, is one of the best written books of all time. I will not even pretend that this story comes even close to it. However, I wish to invite all of you, readers, to forget or ignore the fact that my writing is not Tolkien, and enjoy.

Beware of the Sea

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."
The Two Towers: "The White Rider," p. 106

A warm breeze gently caressed the emerald leaves just emerging from their soft wrappings. The air bore the scent of springtime, of pollen crystals and golden nectar, of raindrops clinging to new beginnings. Sunlight danced upon the tree-feathers that dotted the forest floor with silver dapples. Yet for once, the woods were silent. The fledgling birds withheld their joyous melodies; the speckled fauns were hushed by their mothers while their great-mantled sires stood at attention. Even the bumblebees ceased their humming and perched upon their shining hives. The air was heavy, stretched taut with anticipation, and flickered with the magic of the Fair Folk.

The silence in the hall of the Elvenking was absolute. It too was waiting, watching, listening. Upon its walls hung jade vines, draped upon each archway (for the hall had no doors) a garland of elanor, the Elvenflower. No torches were lit; instead, the widows were all thrown open permitting the sun to turn the marble hall to gold. In the grand chamber, it seemed as though every elf who still dwelt in Middle-Earth attended; the hall was a sea of flaxen heads and spear-tip sears In the front of the hall, standing upon a marble dais carpeted in olive lilies, stood Thranduil, Lord of Murkwood. At his unshod feet knelt his son, envy-of-the-sky eyes gazed straight before him. Then, the Elvenking spoke, his soft bell-chime voice cutting through the silence like a well-shot arrow. "The time of the Elves has long been waning. I have ruled this land with all my might, have kept the Dark creeping through these woods at bay as best I could. But now, it is time for me to take my leave of this weary land and turn my eyes towards Valinor. The sea calls my name, and now, I must head it. Yet, my son, I will not leave to you Murkwood, for Murkwood no longer exists. This realm is no longer smothered by icy shadow, no longer tangled in the blood-slicked webs of Shelob's kin, spider's giant mimic. So I, Thranduil, crown Legolas Greenleaf, son of mine, Lord of Eryn Lasgalen, The Wood of Green Trees. Thranduil, as his words leapt from his cherry lips, lifted his circlet of silver and flowered vines from his head and placed it upon his son's golden brow. He then began to sing, in his native Sindarin, the Noble Tongue. His subjects quickly joined him, their renowned voices merging, bending and weaving into one. It sounded like summer bells tingling, like the gentle brook flowing, fairer than nightingale's sweet song.

Legolas, after the song reached its bittersweet end, rose to his full height and spoke. "The time of darkness has been vanquished, as the Third Age dies. The time of the Elves is indeed waning. Yet, I will not allow what little remains for us on Middle-Earth, whether it be ten years or ten thousand, be a time of sorrow. We will not fade like the sun sinking into the waves, like the ink of an aged parchment, but depart from this world as a dying star, brilliant and dazzling, one last breath of glory, before we sail to Valinor. Some say this cannot be. But I challenge them to this: if a dwarf can fight at the side of an Elven prince, whom he names friend, then nothing, nothing is impossible., I will lead you in this New Age, until at last, I give in to the whispering waves that call me. And my people, I beg you to uphold this dream of mine, to leave your mark upon this land, and insure that the Eldar will not be forgotten."

As the hall erupted into another song, this one reminiscent of fire-lit echoes, of sapling's laughter, of starlight rejoicing, Legolas glided down the aisle formed as the celebrating subjects parted before him. The new Elvenking was a ship, the singers, glass-smooth water. Legolas was besieged by an army of admirers, of hand-grasping and cheek-kissing. Then, his twinkling eyes met the piercing green of his old friend, his ever companion, Aragorn, once Estel, now Elessar, King of Gondor. Elessar treated his friend to a rare smile, fleeting, practically non-existent grin, imperceptible to all but those who knew him as a brother. As Legolas passed, he inclined his crowned head; there was no need for words, for his friend's smile spoke to him more loudly than a roaring army.

Suddenly, Legolas paused in his procession. A helmet-clad dwarf, immaculately-groomed beard wagging to and fro, approached. Gimli, his earth-brown eyes glowing, strode straight up to the Lord of the Elves, and boomed in a voice far louder than what seemed possible for such a small body, "Not bad, for a pointy eared Elfish king."

The hall went silent, not in the anticipation of the former silence but instead the silence of those who could not manage to find the words to express their utter astonishment. A multitude of icy blues and leafy greens turned towards Legolas. How will the Elven lord respond to such blatant obnoxiousness? Legolas regarded the dwarf and after an eternity crammed into the space of a moment, began to laugh. It began as a mere chuckle, soft and warm, but it soon bloomed, becoming a roar of the hearth-held fire, spreading quickly to Gimli, Elessar, then finally, the slowly thawing kingdom. The mirth was a spark, it lit the flames of merriment, the elves all danced. They glided upon the floor, their feet immersed in velvet wings, their bodies swayed upon the mountain's wind.

As the sunlight was washed away by the frigid waters of night, and Earendil's star turned yellow hair to silver, Legolas escaped from the whirling masses.

"I have noticed your gaze drifts often to one golden haired wonder." Elessar said.

"Her name is Luthien, my friend, named for the moonlit Lady of Elven lore. And you, mellon-non? How goes the life of Estel as estel has bloomed into reality?" he asked.

"It is very different from the life I left behind. I have been a wanderer for so long. It seems strange to be tied to one land."

"A land where you no longer must dwell in shadow, mellon." Replied Legolas, "You are the king returned, beloved by all."

"Not all." Responded Elessar. "Man is not a trusting race. They fear all that is unknown to them and lash out against all that they fear. I may be a man, son of man, but I was raised an elf. My taking of an Elvish wife has only worsened the murmuring.

Legolas inquired "What murmurs fly from these serpent-tongues? What is it they say?"

"It is not I they name in their poison whisper, but my kin. 'What spawn', they wonder, 'will be born of our king and his Elven-bride. What kind of man will he be? Did not Lord Elrond, that mysterious half-man, elect to embrace only his Elven blood? Could not the prince choose to do the same?'".

The Elvenlord chuckled. "Aragon, my friend, you have much time before you must face this issue. By then. Lady Arwen will have won the trust and love of Gondor. "

Elessar shook his head slowly. "Not as long as you may think. Arwen is with child. A boy, as Elrond has foreseen. He shall be named Eldarion."

"May Earendil's star shine upon you and your family, mellon. Let it be your guiding light through the darkness ahead."