"Broken Arrow"
Summary: Upon returning home to Mirkwood after Sauron's defeat, Legolas stops in a special place to reflect on all that he has seen and experienced. One shot vignette, Legolas' POV.
Rated: PG
Author's Note: None of the following places or characters belong to me. They remain the sole creations of J.R.R. Tolkien. I make absolutely nothing from this story, save for the reviews of you, dear readers, which is worth its weight in gold to my muse. Story is for entertainment purposes only and is pure speculation on what Legolas might have been thinking about as he returned to his homeland after the war. Enjoy!
The late spring breeze runs its warm, slender fingers through my hair and the air is heavy with the scent of the rain washed earth. All the signs of an early summer are present and each of my senses is at peace. I have always loved the summer. I tilt my head upwards and squint against the sunlight into the pale blue dome above. The afternoon is still young, leaving several more hours until night lays hold on the world. I still have time enough.
The horse beneath me neighs in protest as I change our course through the trees, now heading to the left instead of the straight path that we had been following. I pat him on the neck, reassuring him that all is well and that he will have rest soon. He seems to understand, though I have spoken not a word, and hushes his complaints. Now the only sound to be heard is the dull plodding of his hooves on the worn dirt footpath. Here the birds are silent, watching our progress from their hidden perches high up in the topmost boughs of Mirkwood's trees.
We travel in this manner for a mile or two until we come to a wide open hilltop amid the sea of dark tree trunks. I urge Arod to leave the cover of the trees and we slowly ascend to the top of the hill. Here I dismount, letting the horse rest upon the new green shoots of grass. In the distance I can see the pale silhouette of the Lonely Mountain's head, home of the Dwarves and Gimli not the least among them. But now I turn my attention to the area around me. It is a place untouched by the darkness that still lingers in the edges of my forest, even though the Enemy has been destroyed. But it is no mere accident that this place has retained its purity, for my people have always labored to keep it thus. For us it is a sacred place, for it is here that we have always laid to rest those who have fallen in battle against the evil of Morgoth and his servants.
My mother and grandfather are buried here, for the evil took them both. For my grandfather, his journey to the Halls of Mandos came during the Last Alliance. He gave his very life in the hopes of seeing the Dark Lord defeated. As for my mother, she died when I was but a child of thirty summers. Orcs and spiders had rallied together in their assaults against our people and my father had traveled abroad to seek help from other Elven kingdoms. As long as I draw breath I shall remember that day; how my mother held me close and kissed my forehead before she rode out to lead our forces into battle. But the evil was too strong and the following morning one of the few surviving warriors brought the news; the queen had fallen in battle the previous day, pierced by a goblin arrow as she attempted to protect one of the wounded captains. I think that my father always blamed himself for what happened, for he arrived home only hours after the warriors had ridden out into battle.
There is a statue in this place, carven of solid stone and covered in places in thick green moss. It is carved in the shape of a kneeling warrior, bow at his feet and one hand holding his sword, the point driven into the ground. Resting on the palm of the other hand is a single arrow, the standard weapon of my people. The warrior's head is bowed, not in defeat, but in reverence for the fallen. Like him, I too take to bended knee, facing him. Before him on either side stand white obelisks of stone, elvish runes carved into their sides. Here stand the names of all who have been taken from us by the Enemy. They are the only things standing in this place with a written account of those who have passed to the Halls of Mandos, though in the palace there are scrolls and records kept in my father's study.
I cannot help but to feel as though this moment is not real, but a ploy of my mind, some shard of memory floating to the surface as I kneel. It seems far too unreal that now the Enemy is vanquished after so long a struggle. I wonder what the dead would say to such a feat. I wonder if they too would have trouble grasping that thought; if their minds would have trouble accepting the reality of it all.
A year of fighting the forces of Mordor has passed since I first entered Rivendell at the request of Lord Elrond. One year of battles until the walls of Baradur crumbled. It was a year of hope and despair, of hardship and friendship, and far too many experiences to recall to mind. In one year I learned more about myself than I have in all the long years of my life combined and have seen more than many a wizened old Elf.
Perhaps what still surprises me the most is the friendship that formed between myself and Gimli the Dwarf. There was a time once when I gladly would have slain myself with my own arrow before having dealings with the Naugrim. It is true that Gimli and I did not quite accept one another when we first set out on the quest to destroy the One Ring, but by the time we departed from the refuge in Lothlorien, all animosity had faded and a true friendship had been forged. Sometimes I wonder how that happened, but for the fact that it did, I am glad. Perhaps it was our mutual grief in losing Mithrandir in Moria that did it, or perhaps it was the adoration of Lady Galadriel that I saw in his eyes. But whatever the cause, I found my hostility towards the Dwarf softening, a feat that I had never thought imaginable.
As a warrior too, I found hidden strengths within myself as I lent my weapons to the cause of Men. Though battle was by no means a new concept for me, nothing had prepared me for what I was to experience during my time with the Fellowship. Wanton death and destruction are the two descriptions that are the most prevalent on my mind. It is true that I have had to bury my comrades before, but for the death I saw at Helm's Deep, before the walls of Minas Tirith, and at the Black Gate, there are no words. So many lives taken away, so much blood of virtuous Men spilt upon the earth. Many a night I laid awake, the images of blank eyes and the sounds of final breaths haunting me. They haunt me still, though the war is over. What cure is there for that, or are the survivors supposed to not be cured, preserving the memory of the dead so that their story is never forgotten? Perhaps the survivors are not the lucky ones after all.
Frodo once asked me how it is that one goes back to the life left behind after so much has happened. I wonder this myself. How does one pick up the threads of an old life, going back to life as usual when they themselves are not the same? How does one revert to the chapter in their life left behind, when a whole other book has been completed? War leaves nothing unchanged, especially those who live to see it through. How then does one go back to their life and be content, when they are no longer the person that they once were?
Perhaps the most pressing question on my mind as of late is this. How does one come to accept the end of one chapter in their life? The bitterest day for me was the day our Fellowship broke for the last time. The hobbits returned to their homeland and Gimli and myself, though we traveled together for a time, had to bid farewell, for however long or briefly, to Aragorn in Minas Tirith. The thought of returning to Mirkwood is a bittersweet one in my heart. Greatly have I yearned to be within my own woods once more, but leaving my friends was one of the hardest things I have yet done. How does one go back to the life long friends left behind when new friends have become the most dear to them? There is a kinship and a love between the members of the Fellowship that I have never had with my life long friends in Mirkwood. It is not that I have lost my love for those old friends, but that given a choice between the two, I would stay with the Fellowship for all time.
Then too is the call of the sea. Alas that ever I should have heard the wailing of the gulls! Certainly it is the fate of each of the Firstborn that they shall pass over the sea, out of Middle Earth and into Valinor for the rest of time, never to return. I have come to accept that fact, for many I have known and cared for have already made that journey. But now my heart lays torn another way. First there is the Sea-Longing, which I know shall not be quenched until I board the ship that will bear me hence. Then there is my love for Arda and the people within it. Shall it always be my fate to have my heart torn in two?
Aragorn once told me that I was a source of quiet strength within the Fellowship; that no matter what happened it seemed to him that if there was one heart that did not falter, that it was mine. I had not the heart to tell him how wrong he was. He could not know the thoughts and feelings that passed through my mind and heart, for I never spoke of them. I never doubted our mission, though the odds were horrendously against us, nor did I doubt that Frodo and Sam would find a way to destroy the Ring. My heart never faltered in battle, however bleak the situation looked. Instead it was a self doubt, a gnawing, rotting feeling that settled over my heart as time wore on. Fighting in battles did not daunt me, nor did I ever second guess myself whilst the battle raged on. Instead it was during the calms after the storms that my heart faltered, strange though it may seem. Every now and again I would come across the broken body of a fallen warrior and would recognize him, having fought beside them in the battle. Then I would second guess my actions, always wondering if there had not been something that I could have done to protect them so that they could return home to those they left behind. The feeling was never so acute as when Boromir was felled on the banks of the Anduin and I think perhaps that I shall always bear some morsel of guilt in my heart that he died. Had I only been faster to answer the call of his horn, had I only been closer to where he stood protecting Merry and Pippin…so many thoughts cloud my heart.
It is true that I did my best in battle, and that should be the only thing that a warrior needs to know to reassure himself, but I am so used to having the ability to protect those I care about, that losing a friend in such a way bites cold self reproach into my heart. I feel as if I have failed. The weight of the dead weighs far heavier than the lifted burden of those who I was able to protect. Guilt shall follow me always, a pale haunting wraith that shall shadow my footsteps.
It has been said that there cannot be war without death and as a warrior, I know that to be true. Most might seem to take this fact and accept it; others embrace it, steeling their hearts against feeling. There is not time to lament over choices made when in a battle. But what is never spoken of is that time after, when the dust is settled and the victory decided. Faramir once spoke to Frodo and later to myself, about those who are killed in battle, and I cannot help but to agree with him. It is so easy to make the kill when faced with a life or death situation, for the enemy is simply that, a faceless villain. It is only after death that they seem to regain their features, their individuality. It makes one wonder who they were, what their name was, who shall miss them now that they lay dead. Were they even truly evil at heart, or did circumstances force them onto the path they were traveling?
When I stop to think how many lives of evil Men that I took self loathing rises in my heart. Was it truly necessary to take their lives? Or did I steal from them a second chance at a new life if they chose to amend their ways? Even the orcs to some extent, I can see in this light. Truly they are evil through and through, but they were once Elves and good, blessed and loved by the Valar. They did not necessarily choose to be evil, but rather had it forced upon them by Morgoth. And yet, there is little pity in my heart for those creatures that were slain. My heart bleeds rather for the Men whose minds were corrupted by the Enemy and his servants.
Now I look up, forcing myself from my troubled thoughts. I have spent more time in this place than I had thought, for now the sun is beginning to descend from her lofty throne. Golden light guilds the world, for sunset is not now far off. I should leave this place now, for the spiders enjoy hunting in the night and I am still far from the gates of my city. Whispering words of peace to the departed, I take up the arrow from the statue's hand and snap it over my knee, breaking the shaft into two halves. It has always been said that the arrow shall be broken when peace has been achieved and while there is still work to be done within the borders of Mirkwood, Sauron is defeated. A greater peace there has not been since the Eldar dwelt in Valinor and the light of the Two Trees was seen upon the land. The great task is complete.