Long time no update. Anyway! Hello. I hope this still has some of the old readers - and some new ones, of course! Like I said previously, this is my interpretation of the Halls of Mandos. Not too much is said about them, so, I guess this is what I'd like to think happens with the whole process. Don't hate me. Ok. Enjoy, R&R please!
Dead? How could he possibly be - Not too long ago he was battling in the fields of Gondor. But… perhaps it was longer then he thought. Yes; in fact it felt like days, months, since he had been there, but how had he so easily forgotten? The Elf Prince's brow furrowed for what could have been the hundredth time in a short few minutes - It seemed he was perpetually confused.
"Dead?" Legolas found his voice at last, yet it wavered, much to his frustration, and he found himself uncomfortable with the acrid, bitter taste the word left on his tongue. Perhaps this was not a dream, then. But if not a dream - what was it?
"The Halls of Mandos, Legolas Greenleaf." The elder Elf - Lóthlonith -spoke again, for whom Legolas had almost forgotten was present, so lost in untangling the disarrayed thoughts in his head. "I am here to assist you in your passing. I am to pass fair judgment and decide upon the path you take from here."
Legolas' eyes rose to meet those of the other Elf, but soon shifted, once again uncomfortable. He felt naked under Lóthlonith's gaze; as if he were wearing nothing but his hair and skin.
"The path I take from here; what may that be?" The archer asked after some silence in which he had collected his thoughts and waited for the heat in his cheeks to subside. He forced his eyes to those of Lóthlonith, despite the way further heat blossomed under his collar.
"There are two paths that you may take, young princeling. That of Valinor, where you shall be reunited with lost ones, or that in which you shall be permitted to remain in the Halls of Mandos until the end of time." Lóthlonith turned, golden robes glowing with a warmth that matched the hue of light lingering in the halls. Arms extended he gestured to the walls, whereupon Legolas realised the inscriptions were not just inscriptions - They were names. Thousands upon thousands of names; Elves and men, all of them engraved in the walls.
"Each name bears a soul. They are here, trapped - All of them. Dwelling in the halls until a greater fate meets them. Tied to their names, written upon the walls." Lóthlonith paused, facing the younger elf again with eyes that burned with inquisition.
"Is this the path you wish to take?"
Silence hung, suspended, in the air. All but for the gentle, measured breaths of both elves. Eventually, and only after meticulous thought, did the Elf-prince reply. "No, it is not. I wish to enter Valinor. He hesitated for fear of appearing brash and assuming, "Tell me.. How is it I do that?" Legolas knew it was not his place to decide which path he took - Only Lóthlonith could discern those deserving and those not.
Lóthlonith made a delicate hand gesture towards the archer, beckoning for him to approach, which he did.
"There is only one way to tell, young one." The elder Elf offered both his palms, upward, extended towards Legolas. "If I am to decide, I must read into your past. If I am content with what I witness, then you shall pass on to Valinor. However, if what is see is less then pleasing and I see that you have wronged in your previous life, you shall remain as a name upon the wall, here." His words wrung clear, yet heavy in the quiet.
For a moment, Legolas' hands lingered by his side. What if Lóthlonith were to gaze upon his numerous battles? What then?
After doing his best to neglect the unsavoury thoughts that rattled his skull, he eventually he raised his hands to rest on Lóthlonith's, their palms meeting. He would have been more apprehensive to begin, were it not for the sudden warmth he felt in his hands, and then arms, and then shoulders. It crept through his veins like a tentative, balmy breeze, caressing his skin and easing all tension from his muscles. Legolas would have given a whimsical laugh in wonder, were it not for the gentle constant of Lóthlonith's last words to him interrupting him.
"This is the last we shall see of each other, young princeling. Whatever the decision made, the passing will be swift. Namaarie, Mellonamin." /Farewell, my friend./
Incandescent light filled his vision - bright, burning, and yet deliciously warm light. Intermittent with the light were flashes - pictures; some moving, some not. Memories swept past him, one after the other, faces surfacing only to fade again to white. Names and words, some whispered, some shouted stung his ears.
Legolas suddenly became aware of how little he could feel his fingers anymore, how he could no longer feel the rise and fall of his chest. Was this it, then? This was his passing.
For a fleeting second he felt remorseful. Regretful. He was not ready to leave yet; he was not ready to die. There were still so many woods left unexplored, so many battles still to fight, so many people he was yet to meet. The archer did not want to leave Middle earth.
And yet, he was already disappearing - Not that he could see it, but he could feel it. A sense of weightlessness was enveloping him - Warmth like the cradling arms of a mother embraced him, lifting his soul from his body. How could he be regretful, when in fact death had been a welcomed gift? He would see his friends again; the possibility that he may be constrained to the Halls of Mandos for the remainder of his existence did not surface to mind. It was an impossibility, was it not?
The vivacity of the light surrounding him increased until it became blinding, but he did not care for the feeling of elation that overwhelmed him. There was no need for his tireless worrying. At long last, there was nothing for him to worry about - He had never felt so interminably abundant. He was passing on - But to which path?