Namárië, Elessar
By Joanna
Written for The Tower of Ecthelion's May "In Memoriam" Fan Fiction Challenge.
Chapter Two: Gift of Man
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"We are not bound for ever to the circles of the wold, and beyond them is more than memory."
----Aragorn, The Return of the King
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Legolas charged his mount to her and pulled the stallion to an abrupt halt above her, throwing dirt upon her skirts. Her hand unconsciously rose to the horse's high crested neck and she stared hard at the animal for a moment, unable to bring herself to raise her eyes.
"Arwen," he whispered at last, and his voice was raw and uneven, and reluctantly, she lifted her gaze.
It was as if she was forced to look into a mirror and to see her own grief for the first time, and it was a terrible, terrible sight. It was frightening to witness grief so deep and complete, and to know it was as her own. She could not bear it for herself; she certainly could not bear it for her oldest and most cherished friend.
His eyes seemed vacant, empty windows with no light from within at all. His youthful face seemed so no longer, lines bracketed his mouth and sunken eyes hard. His brow was furrowed deeply, as if in great confusion.
Legolas, she felt certain, had known the moment of Aragorn's death from afar, even before the messengers had reached him. Had known it, but had not believed it. Had been unable to comprehend his knowledge.
No longer. She knew from the look on his face that he'd already been to the city and had stood at Aragorn's splendid tomb and seen with his own eyes the finality of it all, as heavy and solid as the stone that embraced the dead King.
He was lost, as she was. Without direction, and she could not give him purpose any more than he could she, and he knew it as she knew and it was a bitter lesson for them both.
Always, always since they had known him, they had shared a love for Aragorn, a complete and undying love, as only elves are able to give. And they paid the price now, of giving it to one who had left them, the one who had been fated to leave them from the very first day.
Tears rolled down his cheeks rapidly, replaced by newer, more bitter ones as soon as they fell from the sharp line of his jaw. He shook his head slightly at her and held out his hands as if to ask her why, or as if to admit some final defeat.
She stepped to his side and took his hand and buried her face in it, and her tears slipped through his fingers and were greedily taken by the dust of Gondor.
With his other hand he stroked her hair and then lifted her chin, and she looked into his damp eyes and she nodded and allowed him to pull her onto the horse before him.
He would see her safe to Lothlorien. Aragorn would have wanted it that way.
*
Eldarion, from high in the citadel, with his youngest sister at his side, watched as a horse raced across the plains, not for the city but from it.
The riders' hair whipped like golden and ebony flames behind them, and not once did they slow down, not once did they hesitate or look back.
And neither Eldarion nor Gliriel, nor any who watched the going of their beloved Queen and their King's most trusted and well-loved friend, were certain if Arwen and Legolas were running away from Aragorn, or desperately chasing after him.
At last, the riders passed into the shadow of the mountains and were lost from even the keenest sight. Eldarion had just turned from the window, when from the tower a single blast of trumpet rang out boldly, and that note reached far into the heart of Gondor and hung upon the air longer than any call from the city had before that day, haunting and somber.
Eldarion bowed his head further.
"Goodbye," he said softly into the air.
*
There was a last lonely cry of farewell, and both Arwen and Legolas heard it well as they fled, and the wind did not move past them quickly enough to dry their mingled tears.
*
They traveled paths that had once been fraught with grave danger, paths where the Fellowship's footsteps had fallen, when they had been so young, and brave, and had refused to accept the coming of darkness, even faced with their impossible task.
At last, Arwen and Legolas came to Lorien, and still neither had spoken a word, though they had ridden with their arms about one another for strength.
The wood too, was dead. Haunted, some said, and none dared cross the old borders of the elves. The trees, with none to walk below them, with none to admire them, had seemingly given up hope of their own, spearing the sky like high, broken swords of warriors long lost upon battlefields below.
Pulling his horse to a stop, Legolas climbed slowly down and then reached for Arwen, lifting her from the horse and setting her upon her feet.
His sorrow at this last goodbye was too deep and complete to be released from him in simple tears. His tears were spent and this sadness would never be lifted. His last sight of her would be a clear one.
The Evenstar was broken, darkened, lost to Middle Earth forever. Lost to him forever. Just as Aragorn was. He was a warrior, and he recognized a fatal blow when he was dealt one.
He would go to the Havens now, and find what measure of peace he could. It was understood between them, without words, that he would go to Eldarion, that he would be certain that Aragorn's son had no need of his service before he departed. He had never once asked her to come to the Havens, never tried to find a way.
He understood, even as she understood, the finality of her choices. She would not live without him. She'd made that decision almost two hundred years past. And she had held to it, even when the odds of building a life and love together had seemed infinitely small.
She would not go back on that now; to do so would be ridiculous and belittling of the promise she had made to herself and to Aragorn.
And so it was that Legolas leaned forward and kissed her upon the brow, then lightly upon the lips, and he held to her hard for a moment, unwilling to let her go. She who had been such a part of his life, she who had ever been smiling and alight with hope and love and goodness.
He suddenly did not think he had the strength to let her go, and yet he did not wish to add to her burden by asking her to stay, by falling upon his knees and begging her not to leave him alone as he desired to.
He asked the Valar for the courage to hold onto his terror and to curb the selfish desperation that gave him such need to throw her upon the horse and take her back with him, to force her to live again. For him.
Arwen stepped away first, bringing a slim hand to touch his cheek in fondness, for she loved him still, and he knew that even as her heart had been torn away, that remained.
She turned and walked away, and it was far too late for backwards glances. She pulled the hood of her cloak close around her face, walked into and merged with the mists lingering there with the rotting trees.
He could see her shifting shape as it was enveloped in the fog, and he stared after her long, long after she had faded completely from his keen elf eyes, eyes that had seen too clearly the pain she was in.
And standing there alone, Legolas bowed his head and gave thanks to the Valar for the two friends who had loved him, and whom he had loved so well and so long.
Then, he left Arwen in the Lady's woods because it was what she wished, and he turned to find the way home.
*
She went to the hill where they'd made promises to one another, and with the heat of Legolas' lips still lingering upon her brow, a tiny brand to carry with her, the last touch of another she would have upon Middle Earth, she lay herself down and she waited.
For the first time in her life, time seemed to stretch, rather than stealthily absorb the moments between her heartbeats, until she felt she had stayed there for an eternity, apart from him.
But not even so worthy a foe as time may win over loves that will not respectfully bow to the boundaries of hours and days and years and ages, and at last, below her, the earth trembled again, and she raised her head slowly.
She saw him there, riding through the mists, and as his horse climbed the hill, a single shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds and fell into his eyes and Arwen stood and greeted him as ever she had, and he smiled down upon her easily, young again.
He reached for her hand, and she was afraid to take it. Afraid he would slip away, like the mist through her fingertips and that would be a blow too bitter for her to withstand.
But he called her name, and she had never had the power to refuse him, and when her hand met his, his fingers closed around her, warm and strong. She understood the gift of man at last.
Joy and peace and relief swelled within her to such proportions that she wondered if there was any way to contain it, or if it would simply dissolve the limits of her and scatter her to the wind.
"Estel," she whispered as he pulled her upon the horse before him. "I have come home."
And in escaping the circle of the world, she completed her own.
*******
*Title Translation: Farewell, King.