Disclaimer: I would be stupid to claim that I own Lord of the Rings.
Author's note: Now it's complete. I'd be infinitely thankful, if you reviewed one last time. After all, there are no more chapters to come. :o))
Faerlas: Here it is now. And Lapsus didn't interfere much. :o))
Neniel Sildurien: Привет! Hey, where did you disappear? Is everything all right? I hope you are just busy… Drop a note, OK?
scoobygang-alumni: Hi! I'm very glad that you liked my little tale, and it's pleasant that you went so deep into it. Thank you very much. :o)) And yes, you are right about the death of Gwirith. I didn't explain it straightly, but it is so. And thanks again for the compliments.
ElvenScript: Oh, sorry, dear, I didn't mean to upset you. And for sure I didn't mean to make you stop reading other angsty stories. :o))) I hope this chapter can brighten you up a little. :o)
Chapter 16.
Closed circles.
Death-like stillness forged the cave. Not a breath, not a cry… Even the flame seemed to abate its fury, staggered by the performance, having been played before it.
Beside himself with numb amazement, Legolas slowly crawled to the edge, where a minute ago two interlaced figures were standing in forgetful unity… Looked over it… And closed his eyes, as the morbid truth stole its way into his mind.
Over. All over.
Nobody to save. Nobody to fear. Nobody.
Unthinkingly, he moved away from the lifeless bowl of boiling lava. There was nothing he could do.
The feeling was close to that, he experienced in his dream, seeing Gwirith disappear in the precipice with a heart-breaking shriek. How could he cry then? Now, when she perished so soundlessly... so resolutely… there were no tears to pour out the grief that had seized him.
A choking sound escaped his lips. He flinched, but remained standing. For some time…
The next gleam of reason found him already on his knees. Rocking back and forth, like Gwirith did it in the inn… Gwirith…Gwirith…Gwirith…
Certainty, bordering with madness, possessed him. She will return. She always returned. She was stronger than the death itself. All he needed was to call her…
"Gwirith!" a desperate wail soared up to the rocky vault and fell back like a stone. Something trembled in the heart of the red abyss, and growled, making the ledge shake…
He knew what it meant. He felt the anger and revolt, which were arisen in the ancient soul of the mountain at the loss of the powerful child, once born in its fire.
But he couldn't leave without her… Why didn't she come at his call? Gwirith… Gwirith…
How could a girl from another world have an elvish name? Gwirith… He called her Gwirith, but it wasn't the name he had heard from her at their first meeting…
What made him translate it then?
Gwirith…
April.
"April!"
The sound of his own strained and husky voice sobered Legolas, making him start at the realization of how insane his plea was…
Dead. Gwirith or April, she was dead. And he will die, too, because the rising heat had already splattered the walls with clefts and chaps, and the mountain was roaring, ready to fall apart and spout murderous burning waves, destroying as many lives as it was able to…
Let it. He had nothing to live for anymore.
Legolas didn't avert his eyes, when the chasm at his feet uttered one last snarl, and belched the pillar of fire, so high that it could lick a tiny patch of heaven somewhere unreachably far above…
He was sitting on the back of Lith, his head heavy with the retreating sleep… Two wings were evenly squishing blurry and viscous clouds at his sides. And the leaden clod was aching in his chest, vaguely reminding of the strange and sinister vision, he had seen.
Little by little he began to realize that instead of scaly skin his hands were resting upon something warm and downy. The sensation was somehow familiar…
Feathers. He was catching at long grayish feathers, which Lith certainly couldn't possess.
"Gwirith…" muttered he, merely surprised at the pain in his throat. It felt like he had swallowed a cup of hot metal, "Gwirith, what…"
"Gwirith is gone."
The voice was deep and soothing, infinitely old, and nevertheless keeping more might and reason, than any other voices, Legolas had ever heard. The majestic elder, riding in front of him on a flat back of a giant eagle, tuned his head, and the elf saw a weary wrinkled face, lit up with the shimmer of sharp, but compassionate eyes, and framed with the snowy white hair…
So it wasn't a dream. Legolas lowered his head…
"Mae govannen, Mithrandir," uttered he flatly. Well met. Why hadn't his wise ancestors invented another form of greeting, more suitable for such meetings..?
The wizard nodded in return, probably guessing that any words were inappropriate. They were flying in silence – a tired elder and a thoughtless, listless elf, fixing his empty stare on the horizon, where the dawn was burning like the heart of dying Orodruin.
"Where have you been for all that time?" finally asked Legolas, hurt and challenge ringing in his whisper-like voice.
"I've been trying to correct the irreparable," sighed Gandalf with the air of endless sadness, "And each time I revealed blameworthy tardiness. But now it's over without my help."
The guilt is his answer didn't soothe the elf. One thought that she could have been alive if the wizard had come earlier, infuriated and embittered him.
"At what cost?" spit out he with a crooked smirk.
"Don't grieve, Legolas," responded Gandalf softly, "She paid her debt. Her life completed the way it should have, and not many achieve this honour."
Before Legolas could rejoin, the eagle had suddenly rushed down like a swift arrow. The skies swung open, erasing the sight of the ground…
"What are you doing?" shouted the elf, and the whining wind caught up his cry, tearing it into pieces. He didn't hear the words of reply, but guessed them from the movements of the old man's lips:
"Sending you home…"
His cheek was lying against soft summer grass, which had already begun to fade under the breath of approaching autumn. Slightly, but inevitably…
The air was thick with precious sunlight and bitter scent of overheated leaves. He inhaled deeply, letting the goldish blossom-dust dwell on his lips…
"Here he is!" sharply exclaimed someone above him, "I found him! I found the prince!"
He wanted to cry. He desperately wanted to allow the tears in his eyes to spill on the welcoming ground and carry away his incurable angst.
But he stood up dry-lashed, his burnt face expressing nothing except mild gratitude at the joyous smiles and countless questions of elves and men, who had come from nowhere and suddenly surrounded him.
Here he was the prince. And here he had no right to be weak.
Epilogue.
It was hard to believe that only yesterday this world was as far and unattainable as the reflection of stars in a sleeping river.
He was still in Rivendell – the place, from where he had been withdrawn several months ago. The place, to where he came back the day before.
They had been searching for him days and nights. They hadn't hoped to find him in Rivendell anymore. It was Archaldir, who insisted on returning here, and like always, he appeared to be right.
Legolas was washed clean, dressed according to his position, cured, and fed, and inquired. But his answers were short, and everyone soon left him alone, seeing his reluctance to narrate anything.
It was decided that the elves would spend one more day in the empty chambers of Lord Elrond, before heading back to Mirkwood –with gladdening news for everyone who still lived there. The prince didn't seem strong enough to endure such a long road…
…With a gone look and a gone heart he was roaming through the rich gardens of Rivendell, unreasonably angry at the florescence around him and yearning for darkness and shambles. He reached the most undercover corners and clearings, and felt as if he had walked for many and many miles. There was only one spot, he avoided like a plague, though wherever he went, his feet invariably brought him there. To the chiselled bridge and the shiny waterfall. To his memories.
And even now he was standing before the wall of the dew-powdered trees, fighting with himself…
There was nothing to shun there, he persuaded his craven feet. And nothing to hope for - objected the abominably judicious mind.
To put an end to the pointless argument, he resolutely stepped out of the garden right into the fateful yard. And gave a start, his eyes widening in shock and unbelief…
There, on the whitest stones of the bridge… Dark and torn against the perfection of the scenery… A girlish figure was cuddled up to the cold carved banisters…
Suddenly weak, he leaned against the trunk of a nearest tree, and with his heart beating madly and painfully was watching the rolled-up silhouette…
Then gingerly stole closer. The figure didn't stir, as if the lying girl was sleeping or dead.
More scared of confirming the second guess, than careful not to trouble her if she was only unconscious, he noiselessly knelt by her side and with a shaky hand removed the loose and dirty hair from her face.
Her scorched lashes moved, so slightly that Legolas wasn't sure if their tremble hadn't been caused by the gentle blowing of breeze.
But the next instance he lost his breath, as his anxious glance was granted with a weak shimmering of brownish eyes between half-open lids.
"He…He didn't let me die," rustled she with difficulty. Legolas didn't have any time to answer – the uttered words had deprived her of the last strength, and she relaxed, falling into a faint again.
The elf leaned in, easily lifting the slim body, and stood up with a precious burden, curled against his now light chest.
"Neither will I," whispered he firmly, "Neither will I."
The end.
October, 3, 2005, 20:12
My warmest thanks to all who read it and reviewed it. I means much to me.
Yours, Adamanta.