Hey. Thanks for reading guys, Im amazed at the amount of views on this thing. I apologise for the shortness of this chapter but it's back to GCSE's for me, sadly! I was also apprehensive about going into too much detail about the Halls of Mandos, because its one of those things that everyone has their own unique picture of in their head. So I guess this is mine. Once again, apologies for the briefness of the chapter, the next will be longer I promise! Once again, R&R please!:)
The halls were coruscate, the walls adorned with intricately embellished leaves that burnished gold. High ceilings towered above him as he walked, the large arches sweeping over his head and meeting in the centre, and the former Prince of Mirkwood felt his jaw fall ajar in momentary awe. Not even those of Minas Tirith compared to these halls. He remained in a similar state of captivation for some time, cobalt eyes sweeping from wall to wall, from carving to engraving, running slender fingers over the script that laced each golden leaf. Was this a dream? It felt so. Surely, it must be, for there was no other explanation for his being there. Architecture as exquisite as this only belonged in dreams. So he must be, there was no other fathomable explanation.
'If it is a dream,' The Elf-prince thought to himself, 'Then it is a good one.'
His fingers brushed over ancient script on the walls, most of which even he could not decipher, but he guessed it probably dated back to the first age, before he was born. If it was only a dream, it did not matter, anyway. And yet, it felt very real...
"No, no." Legolas corrected himself, this time aloud, his hand leaving the wall and taking its place by his side, as he turned away. "This is a dream. I am certain of it. For, I cannot remember, even, how I came by here. I do not recall riding here, and I see no door for entry, nor exit. How could I have got in, without a door?"
"You are mistaken, Prince of Mirkwood."
The Elf's audible musings were silenced. Another voice came from very close behind him, perhaps only a few scarce feet and Legolas did not hesitate to turn, reaching behind him for an nonexistent arrow, in an nonexistent quiver. When his hands grabbed nothing but the quiet air, he frowned. Slowly lowering his hand, the blond Elf watched his newly-found company with wary eyes.
"Am 'man?" /Why?/ He replied.
The voice that stood before him belonged to that of an Elf, lean in stature with chiseled features, his hair dark and similarly braided to that of Legolas. It was his robes, however, that drew the attention of the Archer. He was clad in faded gold and silver, matching the walls, robes falling to his feet and sweeping about him on the marble floor as he took a further step forward. Legolas had not seen anyone dressed as such, since Galadriel and Celeborn had left Lothlorien and middle earth, two ages ago. In fact, he had never seen any elf dressed like this.
"I eneth gîn Legolas. Im Lóthlonith eston. Av-ósto, odulen an gin eithad." /You are Legolas. I call myself Lóthlonith. Do not fear, I am here to help you."
Help? Whatever for? Legolas' expression evidently portrayed his puzzlement, as did his silence, for the Elf - Lóthlonith - smiled kindly. "You are dead, young princeling."
