A/N: Plot twist, I am alive. How 'bout them college apps, eh?
Gimli hurried to catch up to Miraleth and Legolas, who hurried to catch up to Aragorn, who had knelt to press his ear to the earth for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day. Their pace had doubled some few days before; Aragorn had proclaimed with a yell in the silence of the dawn that they were within fighting distance of the Uruk-hai they hunted and must press on, unrelenting. Gimli panted now as he stumbled over another stone that had gotten in the way and he glared at Aragorn's back, not allowing the elves who also raced ahead of him to escape his spite either. "Three days' and nights' pursuit," he grumbled to himself. "No food, no rest, no sign of our quarry but what bare rock can tell!" His complaints went, as per usual, mostly ignored by his counterparts. Miraleth only glanced back at him and snapped at him to hurry.
It was past midday before they slowed again. Aragorn threw his arm out to stop Legolas and bent down to pick something out of the ground—a leaf-shaped broach, not unlike the broaches that held their own cloaks together.
Miraleth appeared at his elbow. "Finally, a break. Gimli's about to fall over, I think. What is…" She trailed off once her eyes fell on the pin. Her lips formed a small, sad 'o' shape.
"Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," Aragorn murmured, casting his gaze out over the horizon, as if Merry and Pippin would be there on the plains, jumping up and down, waving and grinning for him.
Legolas followed his eyes. "They may yet be alive."
"Less than a day ahead of us. Come!" He raced ahead.
There was a thudding sound behind them, and a loud collection of groans.
"Come, Gimli!" Legolas showed no worry for his momentarily fallen comrade. "We are gaining on them!"
"I'm wasted on cross country! We dwarves are natural sprinters! Very dangerous over short distances! Miraleth, tell him!"
Miraleth did not respond, however. They had slowed again at the crest of the hill. However grudgingly, she had come to appreciate the harsh, sparse landscape of the plains and as she looked out over it now she could almost see why the race of Men had chosen to claim this bit of the realm. Like its inhabitants, it was strong, and stubborn, but yielded beauty and kindness if one looked close enough. Miraleth wasn't sure she did often enough.
Something tugged at Miraleth's being when she caught up to Aragorn and Legolas where they looked out over the land. There was a strange haze, a dull pounding of wrongness in the air, and they sadly watched as the pack of Uruk-hai continued its cross-country sprint. Still, still, still, they ran with no sign of tire. How? Even Legolas—strong, lean, everlasting Legolas—was beginning to look a bit worn. She herself felt like falling to the ground and sleeping forever. "There's something strange at work here," Aragorn said, his brow creased. "Some evil gives speed to these creatures. Sets its will against us. Legolas, what do your elf-eyes see?"
Legolas had hopped down from the ledge and darted forward for a better view. "The Uruks turn northeast," he called back. "They're taking the Hobbits to Isengard!"
Something cold clenched Miraleth's heart.
"Saruman."
They ran into the night.
The next morning the four came upon a village; no more, really, than a small collection of weak-looking huts with thatched roofs. There were some dirty stables at the outer edge of the village. The stableboy did not bother to hide his stare when the party of travelers arrived, out of breath and out of place, and when Gimli paused to lean against the fence, chest heaving, the boy offered him a pail of water, into which Gimli promptly dunked his head before nearly inhaling half of it.
A single guard came warily upon their arrival, his hand resting on a rusty sword scabbard at his hip.
Aragorn held up his hands. "Only passing through," he murmured. "We mean no harm." The guard backed off with hardly a nod but his hand stayed on the hilt of his blade.
They passed slowly through the village, feeling as though they were intruding on a funeral—it wasn't simply the four of them that were silent, it was the village. The entire village. Aragorn nudged Legolas and gestured to a woman clothed in all black who peeked out from behind a bedraggled set of curtains in a window, and Legolas answered in turn with a gesture at a group of children who stood, quiet, beside a small well and shied away with a whisper when they got too close.
Miraleth wandered along in front of Aragorn and Legolas, with Gimli somewhere to her right. She was about to lean back and mutter something to Aragorn about needing to hurry—after all, the Uruks were not taking their time passing through villages—when her gaze was drawn towards the small shadow that blocked the way in front of them.
The child was half her height and looked as if she could be lifted by Aragorn's forefinger. She wore a ragged dress and Miraleth could see her ribs through a tear in the side, and her hair hung limply down her back, but her eyes bore into Miraleth's like stars, unashamed and unafraid. Even as Miraleth approached closer, the little girl did not move, and only kept her gaze. She was aware of Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli watching her, having stopped behind her, but did not pay them any attention. She knelt before the little girl so that she was level with her eyes.
"Suilaid," Miraleth finally whispered, her voice suddenly impossible to use. The little girl did not reply, and only blinked her big, green eyes as an acknowledgement. Miraleth reached into a pouch at her hip and withdrew a corner of lembas she had been nibbling on over the course of the day and held it out to the skinny girl, holding it gently between slender fingers. The girl froze, as if waiting to see if Miraleth would take it away. When she didn't, the little girl reached forward and snatched it into her small hands before turning and running off, her dress flapping behind her.
Miraleth straightened up and watched her as she left, her lips pointed into a frown. She felt Aragorn touch her shoulder. "Miraleth," he gestured ahead. She nodded barely, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and continuing, minding to keep her footfalls quiet.
Children were rare in Imladris. Not because Imladris was dying, which it was, but because it was not often that Elves had children. Conception was neigh impossible, to begin with, and pregnancy was so long. It was just that the elves had exactly an eternity, and they were so slow, taking their time with each and every move they made. Even the act of blinking was languid, almost lazy; carrying a child was nothing to be rushed. It was not like the realm of Men, where there were always births and babes and children everywhere, ready to become grown in twenty years' time and make up for all the old men who had passed on. There were no such multitudes of births among elves, because there were no such multitudes of deaths. The House of Elrond was an anomaly among Miraleth's kind—four children? Four?—and there had always only been a handful or of other children while Miraleth was growing up. There had, in fact, been no births in Imladris since her own. It had only been a little over five hundred years, she reminded herself, but she wondered still if there would ever be another child born to her people.
The coldness and loneliness of the truth was getting harder to ignore: the Elves were leaving Middle Earth.
For the first time in Miraleth's life, time was running out. Every day she could feel another one of her brethren depart from the Grey Havens. It was like knowing an entire field was alight with the glorious warmth and glow of lanterns lit by the Valar themselves, and watching them wink out, one by one. It left Miraleth feeling a little colder and a little emptier each time. And every day there was a dainty, silver trinket to remind her of it, hanging from Aragorn's neck. The Evenstar of Arwen Undómiel. Arwen, who had already made her choice, and would one day grow heavy with Aragorn's child, grow old…and die, mortal.
Miraleth had wanted a child once.
It was a child's dream, to be fair. She and her brothers had all agreed she was not so suited to motherhood as Arwen might be, and who was there to give her a child anyways? She had already turned away all the suitors who had gone to Imladris hopeful for her hand. She had thought she might have a child with Haldir, once, strong like him and light like her, but that too had turned to ash before her eyes.
She wondered sometimes if Legolas had ever thought about such things. She turned her head and glanced at him now over her shoulder. He walked quietly, tensely, his fingers twitching at his sides. His narrowed eyes darted here and there. As Prince of Mirkwood, there had always been offers of betrothal at Legolas' feet and pushing and shoving from his father's court, and occasionally his father himself. But for as long as Miraleth could remember, Legolas had always been a soldier and ambassador first, prince second, and had always delicately brushed aside the idea of marriage. She glanced at him again. The sun was behind him, it was only his silhouette now, but she knew his features as if they were her own. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders and long, light hair down his back, a few strands falling out of his braid around his ears and face.
She could imagine Legolas becoming a father someday, later, when he was older. It would be a little girl. She'd crawl up his legs, and he'd reach down and pick her up the rest of the way before setting her onto one of his shoulders. He would smile a lot.
"Miraleth!"
Fingers, unfamiliar.
Suddenly one of her blades were drawn and she found it pointed at a skinny, dirty throat. Her footsteps were light and quick as she pushed her assailant backwards, and they stumbled into the side of a nearby house.
A hand on her shoulder—familiar, this time. "Miraleth." Aragorn.
Her vision cleared. The tip of her blade was pressed into the pickpocket's throat, and her eyes traveled up the grimy skin to a face. Her brow furrowed and her lips parted, accusations frozen on the tip of her tongue. He was….only a boy. His eyes were wide and afraid, his chest heaving with short, rapid breaths. She glanced behind her—the village guard who had so carefully kept on their tail was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
"Ap-p-pologies, m-m'lady!" He stuttered out, his lips quivering.
Miraleth dropped her blade to her side, regarding him for a moment before sheathing it with its twin.
Gimli nodded his chin at the boy and gestured away with his axe. "I'd run while you can, lad." Run he did, stumbling a bit over his own feet and windmilling as he passed Aragorn.
Miraleth felt for the pouch at her hip—the poor boy hadn't even gotten anything. She almost considered calling him back and letting him have a piece of bread, a few coins, some kind of security in this silent, evil-bound village.
But she didn't, and only watched him run further away.
This was no way for children to live.
Later, after Aragorn had whisked her out of the silent village without a backwards glance and after they had run the rest of the day away, hopelessly trailing behind the band of Uruk-hai, they paused for a break at a small creekbed.
"Agh, hurry up there," Gimli kicked dirt at Aragorn as he bent over to collect water. "They're getting further away," he said wistfully, looking out over the dark horizon. The two of them ambled away further down the stream, their voices fading.
Miraleth had placed herself on top of a small boulder nearby, her legs dangling and bare toes brushing the cool ground. She had taken her boots off.
"You're thinking quite hard," Legolas remarked with a teasing smile. "Be careful."
Miraleth glanced at him. "Do you ever think about growing old, Legolas?"
He started, his forehead creasing just the slightest bit. He shrugged. "Should I?"
"What about having a family?"
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Do you?"
"Feel alright?"
"Don't be dense."
He was silent and the next time he spoke, he addressed the ground. "I used to, sometimes, before my father became legitimately interested in finding a betrothal for me. Then it began to spell containment." And Legolas was not so easily contained, Miraleth knew.
"And do you think we will ever grow old, Legolas?"
He did not answer, but then Miraleth found him standing before her, eye level with her where she sat on her little boulder.
"I have heard Valinor's forests are eternal. Never-ending."
"And what of the forests in Middle Earth?"
"They…grow." He cast his gaze over her shoulder, at the far-off horizon where he knew there were trees. "One day they will grow to overtake everything else."
Miraleth drew a breath and parted her lips to speak but when words did not come she only flashed her eyes at Legolas, willing him to understand the emptiness she felt when she thought of this particular bit of future. This was new, this emptiness. She had always had some semblance, before, of what was to come. She did not like this; was not comfortable with it. Legolas raised his hand up to her face, pausing just before the skin of her cheek. She could feel the warmth of his fingertips pushing through the barrier of cold air. Just as Miraleth felt ready to explode, Legolas dropped his hand. The warmth disappeared.
"Aragorn and Gimli are probably waiting for us," he said quietly, and backed away so she could jump down from the boulder and they could continue on. There was no room here for worry over things like time and old age and children—just running. Just her little hobbits and the band of gold one of them wore on a chain around his neck.
Suilaid - Greetings