Disclaimer – I do not own "Lord of the Rings," which belongs to Professor J.R.R. Tolkien. The characters and places are used without prior permission of the owner(s) and I am making no profit through this story.
This story has not been beta-ed. Any constructive criticism is appreciated, including intelligent flames. Meaning, if you don't like it, tell me why.
The Death Of One Great
It seemed to Legolas that Illúvatar could have done Elessar the honour of letting the clouds fill the sky and pouring rain over all Gondor, or at least dim the sky. After all, Aragorn – Legolas would always know him as Aragorn the Ranger, not Elessar the king, despite one hundred and twenty years as the latter – had come through all possible difficulties to become Elessar, Elfstone, King of Gondor, and one of the finest Kings Gondor had ever seen, in that case. He deserved some recognition now that he lay upon his deathbed.
But Illúvatar had deprived him of that grace, and the sun shone on the hot streets of Minas Tirith along which Legolas now walked. The elf could not stand to wait by Aragorn's side until his death. He would return soon, but for now he needed time to think and arrange his thoughts. Around the King there now seemed only to be tears and sadness, not hope that perhaps he could live another day, or attempts to prolong his life, and Legolas needed to get away from that now. The last three days had been spent at his friend's side; the tears and grief could wait until his death. The Prince knew that then his mind would be lost until he could control his grief, until somehow he rose to the surface and slowly stopped sinking in an ocean of his emotions.
He hated death. As a warrior, he had seen many die, men slain before their time, and elves long before the time that would never come for them. Yet he hated seeing one die of age and mortality. He feared it. He loathed death without cause, and wondered why he had ever gone against his father's counsel and befriended those who would die.
Immediately the answer came to him: because that was how destiny had made it. He was chosen by Fate to go to Imladris to the Council of Elrond, rather than one of his brothers, or a messenger. It was his destiny that he be part of the Fellowship, alongside seven mortals, one of them the son of a Dwarf-lord who hated Legolas' father. And then it was his fortune that that particular Dwarf and a Dúnadan had become the closest friends he had ever had, despite their mortality, when the three of them were thrown into impossible situations and tested together, forcing them somehow into friendship.
And now that friendship was to be torn apart.
Legolas turned to face the Houses of Healing; where so many had died from the "gift" granted to them by the Valar so long ago. Many of his friends had left this world – many of them he had watched do so – either departing for Valinor or Mandos' Halls.
The Ringbearers had passed to Valinor long ago – it had been over a century since Frodo, Bilbo, Galadriel, Mithrandir and Elrond left the Middle-Earth they were weary of. Círdan had carried them across the Sea in what was said to be the last ship. Sixty years later, Sam had followed them from the Grey Havens over the Sea, last of those living who had borne the One Ring.
Éomer had passed on, almost three-score years ago when the leaves fell, at ninety-three years of age. So young, Legolas thought. The King of Rohan had been old and tired of life, and departed willingly. Then it had been the turns of Merry, the Master of Buckland, and Pippin, the Thain and Took. They too had gone freely, cheerful to the last, talking about the next world. The two hobbits had been laid next to the great lords of Gondor in Rath Dínen.
Faramir had followed his wife, who had died but a few years earlier, and they lay together for eternity in a peaceful glade in Ithilien, Éowyn as beautiful in her age and wisdom as in her youth. And Imrahil had been next. Legolas had always thought him so young: the Prince had been so energetic and hale, youthful, even. But the elf had been wrong, and soon Imrahil disappeared also.
Few of the wood-elf's closest mortal friends from the War of the Ring now remained. All that was left were Gimli and Aragorn, and the latter was dying. Soon Eldarion would be King and then it would be Gimli's turn to join either the resting lords of Gondor or his kinsmen in the North, whom he had become estranged from in his friendship with Legolas, an elf.
Slowly Legolas drifted out of his thoughts to the present as he wandered towards the Citadel. Now that he had come to terms – in a way – with the presence of death, he could face Aragorn, and smile at his receiving of the Gift of Men, as he left this world and joined his friends in the next, happier one. Éomer, Meriadoc, Peregrin, Imrahil, Éowyn, Faramir – all had been waiting for the next to join them in Mandos' Halls.
Gondor was once again restored to what it was supposed to be – a land of beauty and free of evil, and although there was much still to do, Aragorn could go in peace, knowing that his son Eldarion would carry on his work.
Reaching the Citadel, Legolas passed it, continuing to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street. Aragorn sat there now, giving farewell to all that knew him well and loved him as much. Arwen was beside him, tears sliding slowly down over her pale cheeks, her beautiful face cheerless and heartrending. Gimli sat on the King's right; his face cast downward and his hands wrapped around Elessar's, whose owner smiled at the sight of Legolas.
The elf sat on his left and would have taken the man's other hand, but Arwen was holding it so tightly that Legolas knew she was afraid death would hurt her beloved – the wood-elf recognised it as a grip of fear, yet he knew that death this way would not pain the King.
Legolas could not hear Gimli's whispered words but recognised that the dwarf's voice was deeper than normal though not hoarse; Glóin's son had not been crying. The elf was not surprised; he doubted anything would bring tears to Gimli's eyes.
"Quel esta, mellon-nin," the wood-elf murmured. "Diola lle."
Aragorn smiled, relieved that his friend had realized that nothing could change this fate. "Ar' diola lle, Legolas. Aa' i'sul nora lanne'lle."
Legolas looked up, surprised at the remark, but did not comment, and smiled in return.
Conversation ensued amongst the three old friends such that Arwen left them. They nearly drowned in reminiscences, saved only by each other, and when rescued, they smiled. Both Legolas and Gimli were surprised that they still remembered how to smile. Although Aragorn had stayed strong, he had weakened lately, foretelling what would happen in just a few hours, but somehow they relearned the skill and laughed.
Many hours later, after Arwen had returned, Aragorn lay down, and his wife reined in a sob. Legolas stood, as did Gimli. Although there was so much more to say, the Prince discerned he need not say it, for Aragorn knew it, and they left the King and Queen alone together, though always to the elf and dwarf they would be the Ranger and Master Elrond's beautiful daughter, the Undomíel.
They passed Eldarion entering Rath Dínen to join the pair. Then they separated, and Legolas passed the Citadel, he passed the six gates and then the stable doors, and when he had fetched Arod from his stall, he passed the seventh, and rode out over the Pelennor, to the nearby woods, to be alone. He knew Arwen would need comforting, he knew Gimli would be alone in his grief, he knew but right now all he wanted was to be alone.
He let Arod wander untethered, and climbed up to a flet he had constructed himself. He lay on the floor, curled up alone, and let his grief flow. He wept, he yelled, he almost snapped his bow in his anger, and felt no better. Throwing back his head, he let out a wordless screaming wail and knew that nothing would come of it – that nothing would bring Aragorn back. Nothing.
"Quel kaima, mellon-nin. Diola lle." Sleep well, my friend. Thank you.
"Ar' diola lle, Legolas. Aa' i'sul nora lanne'lle." And thank you, Legolas. May the wind fill your sails.