The vote remains 8 for Legolas to die, and 17 for him to live. I know the chapters are short, but the only thing I can do about it is upload more than one at a time. This story doesn't let me decide when it's time to skip ahead…

That said, so I don't confuse people too terribly, a loooong time has passed since the last chapter. Over a century. Okay, so long to us mere mortals, at least.

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Legolas's grip of the parchment in his hand tightened, as did the muscles in his jaw. Lunian was sitting in the window seat he had built for her in their talan, her eyes staring out at the world beyond, not a muscle betraying she knew he had entered, but he knew she was aware of him. She always knew where he was, just as he could always point someone in her direction.

The years in Fangorn had been good to them both. The community of elves had accepted her as an elf with rounded ears who needed more rest and less wine, which had allowed her the bright, laughing spirit she had usually been in Imladris.

She was ageing, though. Slowly, but she was growing older. A hint of silver was struck off every now and again in her dark golden hair. He had played with the hairs while she slept against him on occasion, finding a few more each time, but there were still a very small number. Small wrinkles had appeared around the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth. Still, her eyes were bright and her laughter joyful.

The last time he had seen Aragorn, he had tried to picture Lunian in such a way: mostly silver hair, wrinkles folding and creasing the skin which was no longer youthfully radiant. The picture had been fairly pleasant. Aragorn's eyes had been clear though, clear and bright, just as determined as when he was a youthful eighty-seven on their journey to save Middle-Earth.

Thinking of Aragorn he looked down at the letter Arwen's servant had delivered. "He is gone," he stated at long last.

Lunian still didn't move, but a tear slipped from her eye. "I know."

Legolas moved to her side, then knelt before her, brushing the tear away, finding a companion on her other cheek. "How?" he asked softly, worried when her eyes refused to focus on anything even now that he was close.

"A human messenger had to bring tidings from Estel's land. Your grief reached me before you came to tell me. He has lived over two hundred years. His time has been coming for a while."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "He could have lived longer," he whispered, forgetting he had meant not to disclose that part of Arwen's letter.

"Could he?" Lunian asked, catching his gaze for the first time. "If he died, it was his time. Who else could determine it?"

He bowed his head, letting it rest against her knee as he tried to find the same peace with Aragorn's death as it seemed she had. Gentle fingers combed through his hair, the only sound in a world that seemed to have gone silent in mourning.

After a time he looked up, seeing a few more tears had run down her cheeks. He wiped them away before getting to his feet, lifting her into his arms before seating himself where she had been. "How can you accept it so calmly?" he asked, for the tears had nearly dried on her cheeks, and no other showed signs of falling.

She smiled wearily and stretched out in such a way he could still see her face but so they were not actually looking directly at each other. Her gaze went blankly to the window, seeing nothing, for the thickness of thoughts. "Humans are meant to die from the beginning of their lives, Egola. We must accept that early on, and live our lives accordingly. You know this."

"But I still cannot understand how you accept death. What is death, to you?" It was a question he had never considered asking. For elves it was an end, unless their lives had been cut too short. But what was it to those who grew up knowing they had to one day die?

"Eternal rest, peace. For those who have lived well and fully, it is seen as a reward, in a way, though it still has its bitterness all mortals must taste." She sighed softly before looking at him. "Elves were not made to die. Do not worry yourself about it. You shall never know the taste."

He bowed his head but made no reply, for they had gone down that road often enough already. "Are you planning on leaving?" he asked, surprising himself with how difficult it was to speak. His throat felt strangely thick. He blinked in surprise, feeling his eyes growing watery. He was about to cry? He hadn't cried since his mother left—several thousand years ago. As he had trouble breathing, heat coming into his face, dryness clawing at his throat while moisture scratched behind his eyes, he was glad it had been a long time, and wished it could have been longer.

Lunian was upright and in his arms before he could finish registering the escape of a single droplet of moisture. "Estel was seventy years older than am I. You have a while yet, Egola." She drew back, frowning in distress when she found the dampness on his cheek. Framing his face in her hands she leaned forward, sipping up his tears, before she kissed his eyes, cheeks and nose, letting him take control for a longer kiss before they separated just enough to curl into each others arms, turning together to watch the sun set on the reign of the human king, and on the times of his elven queen's happiness.

From now on she would wander in heartbreak, despair, not accepted to the undying lands as he would be, should he choose to one day go. As Legolas drew his love closer, recalling the years he had spent with her, he could not imagine his life without her, and wondered if Arwen would have faded away before Lunian died, or if he and Arwen could try to console each other before leaving the world forever.