"My lord," Legolas woke to the beckoning of his father's guards. They spoke the language of Quenya: the language of the High Elves. He reached into his mind to speak his nearly forgotten native tongue; he was accustomed to speaking Sindarin or Common Tongue amongst Gandalf and Aragorn. "My lord?" His father had sent for him to come to Valinor at once. Legolas had ignored the tidings of his father and resolved to depart after his duty and oath was held fulfilled. "My lord?" the voice continued. Legolas opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the eyes of his father's faithful guard and friend, Elrandïl.
"Elrandïl," said Legolas quietly. "You mustn't call me that." He looked around for a moment, hoping he was in Mirkwood again, but found the nightmare of Valinor true. He was still on the ship that was bearing him there. He looked at the floorboards of the vessel. His face felt cold against the fine, red wood. He sat slowly upright. His departure still seemed surreal.
"That is the proper address for a prince, is it not?" asked Elrandïl, helping Legolas to his feet.
"Nay," said Legolas. "Not for me. I hold no honor in retreating to Valinor to hide away forever." Elrandïl looked into the keen, saddening eyes of Legolas. They no longer gleamed brightly with intensity, but rather stared back glumly.
"Our time is ended. We must leave. There is nothing left for us." Elrandïl said smoothly. Legolas looked with misty eyes into Elrandïl's and saw the sea: his doom. Elrandïl saw this and spoke again. "You mustn't yearn for the friend you found in the man Aragorn of Middle Earth. His is only mortal. There is nothing that can change that." He walked off slowly, in such a graceful manner that it could not even be called walking; he seemed to nearly float along, another characteristics of the Elves. Gimli came to him and raised him to his feet. "Pay no heed," he said soothingly. "We have done what we must. It is a great honor to be sailing to the undying lands with your kin." Legolas paid little attention to Gimli; his sentiments were well meant, but Legolas was absorbed in thought and the lapping of the waves against the ship.
Before long, the ship was making good haste across the water, like a diamond unto glass. He peered across the placid water, his bright eyes flashed and lit with a glaring blue fire, scanning the horizon for sight of land. To his horror, he saw it. "Vailnor," he said tonelessly.
"Only an hours' journey from here," said another Elf. Legolas did not know him. He was no doubt another of his father's aides. With his keen eyes shielded from the sun by his slender fingers, Legolas could scarcely see the landscape, but he needed no sight for its description. He knew plenty well the tales of the Undying Land: beautiful trees consumed the land, leaving no land bare to the eyes of the sea. The golden leaves fell across the soft ground, yet the trees always remained full. The grass was light and springy. Even in the dew of morning, a heavy boot would not leave a print. The sweet air was good to breathe and the clarity of the water was widely known. It was clear and crisp and cool. It quenched the parched souls of the Elves, keeping their spirits graceful. Everyone and everything was at peace there, living in Elysium. Legolas knew better. He knew that as soon as he set foot on the beach, he would be all but calm inside. Deep within the confines of his emotions, screaming at the top of his lungs, calling out to anyone who could release him from the eternal prison of immortality. He would cry out like a wounded animal enclosed in a trap while its enemies begin to advance. And no matter how loud he called, the world was quiet and neglecting.
He knew that the ship lurked ever closer to Valinor, but suddenly wondered what he expected to happen. How would he escape this fate? Was he only delaying the inevitable? Panic struck him, and he quickly searched for options. He frantically looked to the shore, which was only a few leagues off. He had never felt such panic in his life. He quickly readied a small row boat located on the ship. Elrandïl caught him, and begged him to desist. He put up such an argument and nearly a fight to prevent him from leaving.
"Your father sent for you!" he said. "I mustn't return without you,"
"I can't be here. I must go back to Middle Earth where I belong," protested Legolas, still struggling for control of the boat to throw it over the side. At last, he prevailed and the boat fell with a splash into the pristine blue of the water. This caused others to notice, as well as Gimli. Legolas began to dive over the side when he was suddenly jolted backwards, striking his head on the wooden planks. He lay still for a quick moment, his hand over his brow, then jolted suddenly upward in an automatic defense stance which he had grown accustomed to during the war. He sank away from those who had joined Elrandïl, like a helpless wild thing, cornered in the darkness and put up against a struggle it would not likely defeat. In a last attempt, he leapt atop the side railing and stood tall over the crowd that had gathered.
"The sea shall not take me," he said quietly. He frantically searched for an escape, talking only to distract the crowd and even himself until he devised another plan. He wanted loose not just from the ship, but from Valinor: from immortality. With skill, he tore his knife from its sheath and held it above his chest. Gimli shouted out in protest.
"Legolas!"
Aragorn rubbed his fingers together and irritably clenched a fist. His eyes began to search the parchment sent to him form Valinor. He re-read the fine print of the Elves over and over, hoping he may have over looked a consequential factor. He realized he had not, and he dropped the paper, gravely watching it sail gracefully to the marble stone of the hall.
"What is it, my lord?" asked his adjutant.
"This is troubling news," said Aragorn. "You are certain?" The adjutant nodded solemnly while his eye brows knitted in a confused expression. Aragorn waved him away. After the errand runner had left, Aragorn rose from his throne and paced down the hall, his every step echoing off the grand walls, reminding him of how alone he was becoming. He stormed through the grand doors and picked up his pace to a run and hastened through the courtyard of stone and continued until he reached the White Tree, which, although snow blanketed all else, remained nearly untouched, with only a light layer of snow, and still the leaves reacted as if it was the peak of spring. Arwen sat underneath it, reading peacefully as a few leaves swayed down gently and settled at the trails of her dress. This surprised her; the leaves seldom fell from the tree. She looked up and flashed her bright eyes at him. "You are uneasy," she said, rising to greet him. Her flowing voice which usually quenched the fires that burned his heart, was a mere trickle where a waterfall was needed. "I can sense it in your very bones, and in the tree. It feels your weakness."
"I have received distressing news." he said. He bowed his head and barely sputtered out the verity he learned. "Legolas never reached Valinor," he said. The grief made him quake, and he suddenly bent down and was reduced to one knee. He laid his brow against his knee, trying to cope with the new tidings he had received. Arwen helped him to his feet and accompanied him back into the palace of stone. Aragorn revived his spirits and continued to speak: "This is ill news indeed," he began thoughtfully. Arwen was strangely silent; she had no common words of comfort for him. The words also pierced her heart with sorrow. They both turned to look at each other, but each was at a loss for words and didn't know where to begin or what to think. At last, Arwen spoke. "There is still hope. Always, there is hope."
Legolas opened his eyes. He stared up into a pale blue sky. A mix of rain and snow was among the clouds, and a myriad of drops fell on his face. He blinked slowly, regaining his memory of the day past. He sat up and found that he was on the shore. He hadn't gone to Valinor. He had in fact, succeeded in waiving his predicted fate and ended up on the familiar shores of Middle Earth. He saw the boat he had used overturned and floating merrily just off shore. H remembered that he had threatened to take his life, and leapt into the boat. The rest was a faded blur of waves and memories. Nonetheless, he finally managed his footing and stretched on his feet. He breathed deep. The air seemed balmy. To his surprise (and liking), there were no gulls to lure him back. No birds of the sea to bring him where he refused to go. He aimed now for Minas Tirith, to the hall of the King Aragorn. It was a long journey, especially through the winter months of the land, but he faced it any how, and was almost festive in the thought. He gathered his things which had been strewn across the shore and set off at once.
He traveled on foot for a good many days, but was soon wearied for lack of food and water. He had not the lembas bread, the way-bread of his people. This had given him strength for the journeys he made with Aragorn and Gimli in the days of the Ring, while they tracked the Uruk-hai, captors of their companions. Not having this extra needed boost of energy, he was depleted within a day or two. He rested often, but slept little, Gimli constantly on his mind. He regretted leaving him, but was glad to be back where he belonged. He hoped Gimli would fair well in Valinor, and tried not to bring the subject up often. His thoughts hovered from time to time about Aragorn and Arwen, and also of Éomer and of his fair sister.
In the dew of morning, he set out again. He trudged slowly through the murky shadows and deep snow. He had gone yet another night without sufficient sleep. He shivered at the cold breeze that ran through the valley as he traveled ever eastward. He could see in the distance the tower of Isengard, a dead and forgotten threat. He originally was going to go straight towards Minas Tirith, but then decided otherwise after realizing he would risk the perilous journey over the mountains. He left the banks of the river Isen only two days before, and was now marching through a the fog, which seemed so thick that it nearly choked his throat. He traveled wearily through the day, changing paces constantly to regain his stamina. He would often lose his footing and trip over the ice and snow that seemed to consume the land and smother Middle Earth in its entirety. Long after dark, he wore on, feeling it was unsafe to stop in the open. He was crossing through the Gap of Rohan. The air was quite cool and surprisingly dry and thin. It stung his lungs as he breathed it in small gasps after his long run. He could tell that a storm brewed just over head. It threatened to pile the snow even higher, and bring with it arctic winds of the north, chilling all in its path. Legolas knew he mustn't stop there, or he would risk being lost forever in a white abyss.
He saw something move just ahead of him in the fog, though he couldn't be sure. He paused for a moment, and struggled to hear anything over the howling wind and his own breath. After finding this method unsuccessful, he continued on. After another moment or two, he heard a snarl. Instinctively, he reached for his bow, but just as he turned, he was overtaken suddenly in a mass of teeth and blood. He slammed against the snow, the beast just next to him. It got up on its feet and shook the snow from its fur. Two others were with it, and, Legolas, after regaining his senses, recognized them as wargs. He unsheathed his white knives and killed the first warg who pounced. The next warg came after him had a rider. As Legolas plunged his knife deep into the beast's vitals, its rider slammed him in the head with an iron bar. He fell into the snow, but was quickly revived by its coolness. He stood up and reach for his bow once more, but cried aloud when he found it to be missing. He hit his knees and frantically searched through the powder with his bare hands as the last warg came snarling.
His fingers grasped metal, and he pulled out one of his knives from the snow. He turned and slew the rider of the second warg, and turned back just in time to kill the second as it pounced. It stopped in mid air, and Legolas rose to his feet and yanked out his weapon. Not waiting or another brawl, he immediately proceeded in his walk after not finding his bow. He trudged on through the storm. He spit the blood from his mouth and realized a few teeth had been loosened from the earlier blow. Blood dripped from a gash on his arm inflicted by the jaws of the predators. He at last slumped over and, exhausted, fell victim to sleep.
"My lord!" cried a rider to Éomer, who turned in his saddle to see the man through the flying snow.
"What is it, Gildal?" he shouted, trying to carry his voice over the wind. Gildal, a clean shaven, young man of Edoras had joined the Rohirrim to honor his father who had died under the oath. Gildal continued:
"My lord, we must turn back! The snow will prevent us from returning in time!" The Rohirrim had been gallivanting about for the past few weeks, taking out what remained of the Orc colonies. The Orcs roamed through the Gap of Rohan. They feared dwelling too far beyond those borders. They hid in and among the ruins of Isengard, quarreling and fighting and killing as they had always done.
At last, the kings of Middle Earth formed a bond between Gondor and Rohan, which enabled their forces to wash away the filth of the Orcs. Gondorian soldiers patrolled the coast and up to the skeleton-like remains of the black gate. No man still dared to enter there. The land still retained a purely evil essence, and everywhere the rocks reeked with the odor of destruction and malice. The Riders of Rohan patrolled the Gap, Isengard, and all the land into their borders. Now, they were heading into the Gap after having spied on a group of Orcs seen there earlier. They were only a few leagues from Edoras then. Earlier, they planned to circle around and make camp near Minas Tirith, but the snow began to fall quite heavily, so they came to the conclusion of returning to Edoras. The journey into the blizzard would force them to make camp during the night. It was much too cold for the men and their horses to endure the bitter wind for so long. Éomer ordered the men to ride back to Edoras, and announced that they would return the next day. His men mounted their steeds, and followed him back through the gyrating mass of white.
"To arms!" a cry rang out over the wind. Gildal had ordered the men to stop after seeing a band of Orcs in the hazy distance. After receiving a nod of approval from Éomer, they charged forward, but found that the band of Orcs they had seen were already slain. The Rohirrim scavenged the corpses for useful items and weapons. Éomer came upon something quite strange: a mighty bow, now splintered and cloven in two, and an Elven brooch. After he mused over it for a moment, he realized to whom they had belonged.
"Gildal!" he cried, waving his hand. "Send your quickest rider to Minas Tirith!" he said, wrapping the items in a piece of cloth. "Take these to Lord Aragorn. He needs no message," he finished quietly. Almost immediately, a rider was off through the storm, carrying the parcel which would bring great woe to the king of Gondor. "Now," cried Éomer, "ride back to Edoras! To Edoras!" They began the ride back, but they still had to make it through the pass and back to Edoras.
Aragorn quickly called for the gates of his city to be opened; he hastened to let the lone rider in. He quickly ran to greet the man and take him in to shelter and food.
"What brings you this way?" asked Aragorn. "I thought you to be returning to Edoras nearly two nights ago!" The errand rider quickly relayed the message from Éomer. "King Éomer sends you these." he began. "He said no words would be needed." He presented the parcel to Aragorn, who took it and thanked the man.
"Have my aide assist you to some quarters where you can sleep in peace and warmth tonight," said Aragorn, and thanked the man once more. Once the rider was situated and fed, Aragorn retreated back to his quarters. He set the parcel on the blanket and eyed it suspiciously, the way one eyes a dubious character. After much hesitation, he lifted the soft parcel and carefully dumped its contents across the bed. The moment his eyes lay upon them, they burned with tears. His throat swelled and throbbed. And, as it seemed she always did, Arwen arrived just in time to comfort him. She too recognized the bow and green brooch.
"This means nothing," she began, but Aragorn stopped her.
"He is not so easily parted with his weapons, and the leaves of Lorien seldom fall. Where is this hope you speak of?" It was a rhetorical question, Arwen knew, and so she did not attempt to burden him with sentiments and false hope. The truth was clear to see, and even she could not sway Aragorn.
Aragorn left his chambers and went onto the courtyard. The tree was dying, much like Aragorn was inside. Just as his strength failed in the loss of a dear friend, so did the tree. It had lost its white gleam, and stood now covered in snow, bare and unclad against the world. He knelt there, undisturbed yet terribly burdened, pouring his anger and sorrow in a mix of tears and memories. His heart ached and burned with the fires of Oroduin. His loss was great.