There was a soft rusling among the trees, and the faint sound of footsteps, before an elf could be
spotted making his was out of Mirkwood. The elf paused for a moment, looked around, and walked slowly
towards a small overhanging in the side of a nearby cliff. Here he paused again, gazing back at the
forest for a moment, and collapsed onto the groud.
Nobody saw him except for a few small birds, flying overhead, and a squirrl sitting in a tree on the
edge of the forest. Still, there was not much to see. A tall elf, weaponless, with torn clothing and
blood running down his legs and arms, and covering his face. He carried only a small piece of
parchment, clasped tightly in his shaking hand.
There was silence, as the elf sat under the cliff, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his ears.
He waited, waited for anything, anyone, to come to him. But nobody came. He lifted his head to the sky
and gazed at the ever-darkening sky. But nobody came. He stood up warily, flung his arms out, and
shouted in dispair. Still, nobody came.
The elf sat down again, fingering the parchment he held. He triend to think of something, anything, to
take his mind off the pain he was in. The parchment he held, the sky above him, the birds and the
animals, the trees and the flowers.
Nothing worked.
He was trapped in his pain, a prisoner inside himself. He could not escape the pain, no matter how he
tried. And now, sitting here, thinking, he wondered vaugely if this was how an animal felt while caught
in a trap. Nothing to do but suffer. Unable to feel any joy. Just waiting. Waiting for death, the only
thing that could free them.
The only thing he could focus on was the pain. It was everywhere, his arms, his legs, his head, his
chest. It was to much to bear. And yet, he could not escape it. He could not be free of his pain. His
bondy would not let his die, would not let him leave.
He was trapped.
There was nobody with, him nobody to tell his sorrows to. He was alone. He would die alone, abandoned,
painfully. His body would never be found. The earth would claim him, but his soul would not be freed.
He would wander, wander forever, lost.
But he could think no longer. If death would not claim him, he would turn to the only other thing that
could. For a littlw while at least.
Sleep.
Yes, he remembered sleep. It was a pleasant feeling, really. It felt nice to sleep. But sleeping was
forever, never resting, never sleeping. But when they finally want so desperately to sleep, they find
that they cannot. You do not enjoy going to sleep, yet, when you are woken against your will, you want
nothing more then to slip back into the world of dreams, just for a moment longer.
Indeed, sleep was a funny thing. But if it could free him from the pain, if only for a moment, then he
would willingly let it overcome him. Oh, how he wanted sleep to come to him!
And, thinking such thoughts, the elf sat down against the cliff, as comfortably as possible in his
present situation, and sighed deeply. Maybe he would feel well enough to walk a little farther when he
awoke. Or maybe not. But it was not time to think of such things.
Without even the strenghth to keep his eyes open, the eolf slipped into a fitfully sleep. Horrible, and
yet, so very precious, at the same time, for it was all that was keeping him alive.
The sun sank below the horizon, and the darkness quickly dashed about, all of them searching for a
small corner that, perhaps, one of his fellows had missed. The birds and the squirrl that had observed
the elf earlier were now alseep, a quite, peaceful sleep, unlike the elf sleeping below them.
No, Legolas Greenleaf did not sleep well that night.
spotted making his was out of Mirkwood. The elf paused for a moment, looked around, and walked slowly
towards a small overhanging in the side of a nearby cliff. Here he paused again, gazing back at the
forest for a moment, and collapsed onto the groud.
Nobody saw him except for a few small birds, flying overhead, and a squirrl sitting in a tree on the
edge of the forest. Still, there was not much to see. A tall elf, weaponless, with torn clothing and
blood running down his legs and arms, and covering his face. He carried only a small piece of
parchment, clasped tightly in his shaking hand.
There was silence, as the elf sat under the cliff, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his ears.
He waited, waited for anything, anyone, to come to him. But nobody came. He lifted his head to the sky
and gazed at the ever-darkening sky. But nobody came. He stood up warily, flung his arms out, and
shouted in dispair. Still, nobody came.
The elf sat down again, fingering the parchment he held. He triend to think of something, anything, to
take his mind off the pain he was in. The parchment he held, the sky above him, the birds and the
animals, the trees and the flowers.
Nothing worked.
He was trapped in his pain, a prisoner inside himself. He could not escape the pain, no matter how he
tried. And now, sitting here, thinking, he wondered vaugely if this was how an animal felt while caught
in a trap. Nothing to do but suffer. Unable to feel any joy. Just waiting. Waiting for death, the only
thing that could free them.
The only thing he could focus on was the pain. It was everywhere, his arms, his legs, his head, his
chest. It was to much to bear. And yet, he could not escape it. He could not be free of his pain. His
bondy would not let his die, would not let him leave.
He was trapped.
There was nobody with, him nobody to tell his sorrows to. He was alone. He would die alone, abandoned,
painfully. His body would never be found. The earth would claim him, but his soul would not be freed.
He would wander, wander forever, lost.
But he could think no longer. If death would not claim him, he would turn to the only other thing that
could. For a littlw while at least.
Sleep.
Yes, he remembered sleep. It was a pleasant feeling, really. It felt nice to sleep. But sleeping was
forever, never resting, never sleeping. But when they finally want so desperately to sleep, they find
that they cannot. You do not enjoy going to sleep, yet, when you are woken against your will, you want
nothing more then to slip back into the world of dreams, just for a moment longer.
Indeed, sleep was a funny thing. But if it could free him from the pain, if only for a moment, then he
would willingly let it overcome him. Oh, how he wanted sleep to come to him!
And, thinking such thoughts, the elf sat down against the cliff, as comfortably as possible in his
present situation, and sighed deeply. Maybe he would feel well enough to walk a little farther when he
awoke. Or maybe not. But it was not time to think of such things.
Without even the strenghth to keep his eyes open, the eolf slipped into a fitfully sleep. Horrible, and
yet, so very precious, at the same time, for it was all that was keeping him alive.
The sun sank below the horizon, and the darkness quickly dashed about, all of them searching for a
small corner that, perhaps, one of his fellows had missed. The birds and the squirrl that had observed
the elf earlier were now alseep, a quite, peaceful sleep, unlike the elf sleeping below them.
No, Legolas Greenleaf did not sleep well that night.