16. A dark tale ends...

I.

Elrond remained on the battlefield while the last bodies of the fallen orcs were compiled into big dark heaps. He still was there when those pyres were set on fire, unceremoniously, and blazed up in dancing flames, and he hadn't moved much when they – finally! - expired, one after another.

Thick, black smoke was rising from these embers, which soon hung all over the clearing, and it spread the stench of death and decay; laying itself on the elven minds like viscous, merciless quicksand that encloses its victims, tighter and tighter, until it's filling their mouths and noses and keeps them forever in its deadly embrace.

Long ago the wounded had been brought back to Rivendell, in a long, slow lineament; hardly recognisable as the proud army of elves that had left this very morning to defend their realm, and over it there hung the whole tragedy of a people that has been roped into a war against its will; to emanate from it with both visible and invisible scars; knowing very well that all its courage, bravery and readiness to make sacrifices, and even its victory, will not change anything of the fact its life will be changed forever.

A still smouldering grimy fluff was ensnarled in Elrond's hair, and while the elvenking removed it with a grimace of disgust – nothing from an orc, not even his remains he was about to tolerate on himself – he surveyed the still glowing piles of ashes, and he asked himself if they might be equivalent to what was left of elvish power in Middle-earth:

Once powerful and mighty it had been, like a blazing fire, banishing even the blackest darkness, but burned down to a heap of ashes was it now; from which no one could tell how much life was left in it.

Would these ashes be ignited again by the winds of balefulness that now blew against the elves? Or were they doomed to be simply washed away from the memory of the other people populating Middle-Earth now, like the ashes of an abandoned campfire, when rain is falling down on it?

Gandalf's dark words had raised foreshadowing in his soul, as dark as the mist over the clearing before his eyes.

"It is not over yet, Lord Elrond. It is not over yet.."

Elrond felt a cold shiver running down his spine when he recalled these words; similar to what a child might feel when it is eavesdropping some adult talk not suited for small ears.

He'd never been surprised by them, though, as if the wizard's words had only affirmed a knowledge he'd always harboured, deep in his soul: The knowledge to take part in a game in which they were not really planned to do so; or, even worse, that all their suffering and sacrifices would be proven insignificant in the end; on the stage of a great game no one really understood yet, and at which the stakes would be much higher than even the possession of the three elven rings.

Evening wind had arisen and blew cold, raising fluffs of ashes from the smouldering pyres; and like dancing orange beetles they flew through the air. Elrond's gaze came to rest upon them; and it was this very evening that the sorrow for his people began to outweigh his love for Rivendell or Middle-Earth; and the decision to leave his homelands was ripening in him, for he knew inside his heart that no wrench could be as painful ever as the dying of so many of his people had been today.

II.

Gandalf repeated his request for a private counsel with the elvenking, as soon as Elrond returned from the battlefield together with the last elvish warriors being occupied there, and this time, though overtired he was, he did not refuse to meet it.

What the wizard had to tell him were the first coarse rules of the great game he'd feared had already begun, and from which Gandalf knew nothing more but the stake, and some of the players of the opposite team. None of the words Gandalf addressed at him this evening did scare him more, though, than the fact that he detected a hint of insecurity, or even fear, in the wizard´s grey eyes, as if he was talking about the dark myths of the far North that were only narrated in a hushed voice, just as if the game had to be feared even by him, the mighty grey wizard.

III.

Like long filamentous water plants light was penetrating the darkness of his deathlike, deep and dreamless sleep; and it was there soft swaying that finally brought him back to consciousness. He woke; and it was like going up from a deep dark well, where light is bashing over one's head when one is breaking through the water surface, returning to brightness and air; and he opened his eyes.

Doing so was a painful experience, and the floating light did hurt his eyes, as if he were one of these creatures of the darkness that only anticipate the existence of the sun, and suddenly, unexpectedly get caught in full sunlight one day; and he gasped for air, for like someone moving through thin air his throat constricted with the oppressive feeling of lack of oxygen, and deeply, deeply he inhaled while he looked into the light that filled his heart with boyish cheerfulness, without him really knowing why.

"Elwyne! Elwyne!" Someone was reaching for his hand and clutched it. "Elwyne!"

The few syllables resounded in his head, and he even understood them, but still

his lethargic mind needed quite a while to really get their meaning; and when he opened his mouth to answer to the urgent calls he noticed that his throat was actually too dry to do so. He fell silent and coughed a little; while warm light was drawing squiggles on his cheeks and upper body and made him shiver with happiness.

"Elwyne!" He noticed both an inquiring and a scared note in the way his name was pronounced, and the pressure of the hand enclosing his intensified, to an almost painful degree, and now Elwyne really would have liked to say something in return, if he only had been able too, but still no words formed in his throat, only a hoarse cawing, sounding more like young ravens calling for feed than an melodious elvish voice.

Fortunately his croaking was interpreted correctly this time, and a jug of cool fresh water was held to his lips. Elwyne took two or three hasty sips; maybe too hasty, for his stomach ached in protest, and he turned away his head.

Still the water had refreshed him; and he finally found back to the use of his language, and even managed to co-ordinate his gaze thus far that his surrounding stopped spinning around him. Hoarsely, as if he'd never been used to speaking at all, he asked: "Legolas?"

His thoughts were still as slow as viscous plump, but then two or three further gulps of water were inflicted on him, causing his head to lighten, and finally the face of his brother, sitting beside him and grasping his hand, started to assume a definitive shape.

"Legolas!" Elwyne repeated, proud of having recognised his brother, while fatigue had started to reach for him with its leaden fingers once more, and his eyes started closing again.

"You look as if you'd been tussling with some mirkwood spiders, little brother!"

"Just wait until you see yourself in the mirror!" Legolas answered, and there was some laughter and some tears in his voice. "Just wait!" Elwyne had only strength left for one of his famous mocking smiles and a mumble before he fell asleep again, but its familiarity was enough to melt some of the ice surrounding his brother's heart. Yes, Elwyne had achieved far more with his few words than he probably knew; like saving Legolas' soul, for in his brother's heart, encrusted with dark black ashes, they'd ignited a spark, a small, but a promising one, that eventually would grow to a fire once again.

.

And Elwyne slept, but deep, and untroubled now, for he'd fallen into the healing sleep of convalescence, something that was not lost on his brother, and in a sudden jolt of joy Legolas had to leap up to get his emotions under control suddenly threatening to overwhelm him ever since he'd witnessed the awakening of his brother, and so intense was his joy that at least one of his family had survived (and would live, though crippled) that it made him forget the pain that flashed through his arm at this careless move.

The whole night as well as the following morning Legolas sat at his brother´s side, and seldom turned an eye from him, but Elwyne did not regain consciousness again, and finally Legolas had to leave him, with much reluctance though, for he, too, had been invited to Elrond's hastily summoned 2nd meeting, taking place any minute now, in order to talk about things he'd rather have hushed up, while the words he really wanted to say, like "good bye" to his last surviving brother remained unspoken, and sad was the last look Legolas cast at his resting brother, as if he already knew they weren't going to see each other for a long, long time.

IV.

A breathtaking experience awaits the one entering a tropical rain forest for the first time in his life. The very moment the forest's green luxuriant canopy closes over his head, myriad mosses, ferns, flowers, tendrils and trees are competing for his attention, and hundreds of smaller and bigger animals are contributing further to the overwhelming impression of flourishing life.

But in any of these observers (or intruders) lingering there just a little longer (even if he's almost drunken with beauty) some nondescript uneasiness will start to rise, only irritating first, but soon taking almost haunting dimensions, without him being able to really define it. Only much later he'll begin to understand that it is the scent of decay oppressing his mind, and he'll discover that passing, putrefaction and death are hidden only insufficiently behind pulsating life.

The circle of birth and death is nowhere as tightly interwoven as here, where luxurious life exists right beside rotting death, and where transience is lurking darkly – and they might have felt like this, the participants of Elrond's 2nd council, taking place the 2nd day after the last victory of the elves, for seldom more serious guests have been welcomed in Rivendell, as if its beauty too, had started to fade to translucence, no longer able to veil the fact that the "last homely house" might be doomed to fall in ruins, abandoned by the elves.

And especially the elves seemed to be afflicted with the depressed atmosphere and were apathetically like humans under too much heat, for "transience" was something they did not understand.

Gandalf was there, filled with restless and nervous energy, and Elrond, calmer now (the decision to leave Rivendell had taken roots in his heart), and Mardin and Legolas from the wood elves, from which the latter was wearing his right arm in a sling and the ring of his father around his neck, on a fine necklace, for the fingers of his right hand were still too swollen to do so.

There were other, more unexpected attendees, though: Boromir, having heard from of Rivendell's distress while already on his journey home, and instantly returning to stand by the elves in the hope of finding more open ears within them for his people's pleas; as well as the delegation of dwarves that had already participated at the first of Elrond's councils, for they had not left Rivendell yet.

Probably the most strange and unexpected participants, though, were two of these childlike creatures Gandalf had brought with him upon his last arrival. Since the grey wizard had not lost a single word about their involvement in the matters of elves, dwarves and man thus far, they were eyed with quite some curiosity, and, judging by the nervousness the two hobbits vainly tried to hide, they weren't too sure about their whereabouts in this 2nd counsel of Elrond themselves, too. There was not much time for greeting formalities (different to the first counsel, where the elaborate speeches and greeting rituals especially among the elves had lasted what seemed like an eternity) anyway, for now Elrond and his advisors had arrived, and the counsel began.

V.

There was not much talk about the battle against the orcs anymore, only as much as everyone understood what really had happened, for to Gandalf it seemed of great importance that especially the hobbits were informed as well.

So soon enough, and against his will, Legolas was forced to rise to speak about things he'd rather left unspoken: About his father's death and Saruman´s murderous attempt on him, trying to get at the first elven ring, and about the downfall of his people; and hasty and meagre were his words, betraying nothing about the sufferings, fears and doubts he'd felt those days (for as short they actually were, every single one of them brought back a flood of horrible memories he simply couldn't face up to, not here, not now).

But even though his voice was flat and emotionless while he spoke, his eyes were not as deep and empty like a dried up well, his heart not dead and cold as stone anymore, for he'd started, if only slowly, to care for his surroundings again, and there was no one in the round of the counsel more relieved about this than Gandalf himself, having future plans for Thranduil's son, the prince of the Mirkwood, that could not be revealed to someone out of his head with grief.

Then the word was to Aragorn, and the attention of all free people of Middle-Earth was directed on him when he gave a short summary of his and Arwen's errands in the Northern woods: How they had searched for the poisonous lady in order to heal Elwyne and thus proving Legolas' innocence (a weak smile was going over the elvenprince's face at these words, but it was quickly lost), and how they had found Sam instead, who finally opened their eyes to Saruman's crimes – the little hobbit blushed at the mention of his name- allowing them to warn Elrond about the imminent invasion of orcs in time, although the very last moment.

Now it would have been Gandalf's turn to give an account about how he'd managed to bring back both Thranduil's sons from death's treshold, now that he knew a poison from Saruman to be the true reason behind Elwyne Thornbush's coma and Legolas Greenleaf acute poisoning, but the wizard seemed unaware of all the eyes directed on him; he seemed absentminded, as if he was turning something over in his head, again and again, and only when Elrond addressed him directly the usual watchful expression returned into his eyes.

And then the wizard talked about the big game that had started over their heads, and his gloomy words depicted a vision of coming doom, more horrible than they had ever anticipated, all the more so because the vision was not clear even to the one conjuring it up, and full of doubts that lay over it like opaque veils.

And it seemed to them as if the image of a ring, a lidless eye and Saruman, the White wizard, were running into each other to form a new image, showing both a terrible and invincible god, and this deity had many faces and was called hunger for power.

Yes, it was blurred, the image of the game that was going to decide over Middle-Earth´s fate, but its colours were nonetheless bright and vivid and in these dark shades that literally absorb the light, whereas the image of Rivendell and the nine companions, finally being chosen as the white players in this game that had been forced upon them, faded against it like the inscriptions of the tombs on cemeteries long forgotten, and became translucent like the wings of butterflies caught in a storm.

VI.

There weren't many wood elves left when Legolas left for Mordor as one of the nine companions. Most of them decided to stay with Elrond's people still dwelling in Rivendell, and later followed them to Valinor, where they might have been able to forget their sufferings.

Other's weren't ready to do so yet, consumed by their longing for their homeland, the Mirkwood, and they never managed to settle in anywhere else.

For some time they remained in the Mirkwood that had regrown (and stubbornly enough they had started to call it "Greenwood" again), but even they eventually had to accept what they had known from the beginning, deep in their hearts: That it harboured far too many horrible memories in it for them to still live there, bringing a strange weariness over them; and ceaselessly attacking their already lessened vitality.

The elvish people had almost left Middle-Earth when the last wood elves from the Greenwood set forth to perambulate its woods, moors, meadows and grasslands one last time, in search of a new home, as the humans used to say later, but they were few, and their traces were lost in the course of time.

Their fate, though, provided a basis for the creation of tales and legends and prolonged their immortality in the memory of men that now populated Middle-Earth, for they were seen by them every now and then, if only from afar, shadowlike emerging; seeming quite unapproachable in their reserve; and incredible beauty;

leaving nothing but a kind of nondescript pain (comparable maybe only to the sentimentality that is arising if one is visiting the places of one's childhood) after their departure.

Then the reports about the wood elves become more sparse, vanished like Middle-Earth's woods when the number of men was growing, and no one ever claimed to have seen one of the "wanderers" again.

"One can not see but feel them." Mothers and grandmothers were to tell their children though; while their husbands were scolding them for telling such cock-and-bull-stories, but they too knew the places their wives were talking of: Hidden and difficult to reach they were, in the middle of the last remaining woods, incredibly beautiful, untouched, healing and enchanted, for they had to be visited again and again after they'd been discovered, having both a calming and disturbing effect at the same time because they mirror the very lost perfection the human race secretly is longing for: A Valinor beyond the shores of Valinor.

Today such tales are rarely heard, for the humans are less sensitive now; and eventually even the trees' memory of the Mirkwood elves will expire; and finally the age of men will be reigning, an age of cruelty and heroic deeds, of creation and destruction, of fortune and tears, as ambivalent as mankind itself; until one day another people comes to replace it, causing the term "human" to become as mythical as "elf", "hobbit", "dwarf" or "orc".

Authors' note:

Sounds familiar, the ending of my first LoTR-fanfiction-work, doesn't it? And that's exactly what it should, for now the story will proceed as Tolkien himself wrote, with the only difference that not only Frodo but also Legolas wears a ring; and that Saruman is known to be evil from the beginning. No need for me to describe this further...

I hope you enjoyed the story... I'm sure you didn't enjoy it half as much as I did enjoy getting reviews from you, though: Guinevere and Pencil Bob, Artemisa, Daylight, Sarah Lynne, Legilmalith, Legolas fan, SpaceVixenX, flame3, SpazzyHypy, Anon, Salak, blue4dogs, Morloth i.g. DarkAura, tapetumlucidum, zat, narcolinde, shanya and Elise (who has betareaded this last chapter once more, I'm very grateful for your endurance!) !

Which actually makes me think of something...have you already done your boy scouts' good deed today? Not?!? Well, do you see the strange case in blue at the bottom of this text? With this equally strange "Go" button beside it? Write some words in it (they do not even have to make sense) and hit the "Go" button...and your conscience will be clear for the day!!!

(No seriously: I would be very happy if you would leave a comment for my debut feature, for I have to know if some people have read through all the stuff even if it took me more than one and half a year to publish it!)