Chapter 9. What’s left behind.

“The trees are speaking…”  

“And what are they saying?”   

Thranduil’s reply came out in a quiet, sad voice. That was the ritual refrain for demanding a story in the family. It had been in Thranduil’s childhood, and it had passed onto his children -and his children’s children- as a treasured family custom. It sounded strangely appropriate now, as father and youngest son stood together in the darkened glade, listening to the chattering of the new sprouts on the awakening trees.  

“I could not tell, Adar. I can hardly hear their voices these days.”

There was such calm, resigned despair in Legolas’ voice that Thranduil felt his decision falter and his arguments fade away in a moment. Only compassion remained; and the unbearable pain of seeing a loved one, a child of his, suffering so hopelessly.  

He had a speech ready; advice, conditions, requirements…There would be time later for all that. He closed his eyes and searched for the pulsing beat of the woods. With an easiness born out of the long intimacy with the trees, Thranduil attuned himself to the breathing forest and blended with its living mind. As he became part of the song, he reached for the bright presence of his son’s faer and enveloped it in the strong, melodious heartbeat that pulsed differently with every Wood elf’s life-song. He opened his eyes to meet his son’s now more serene gaze.  

“Can you hear them now?”  

“Much better,” his son said at last in a hoarse, slow voice that expressed deep relief. “But, Adar,” Legolas continued hesitantly, “you cannot do this forever…” 

“I could, if I deemed it necessary,” the king said sternly. “But that is not the matter of discussion tonight.”   

He did not say that he wished to sustain his son’s faer for as long as it was needed, that he would gladly spend all his strength in fighting the sea-longing with Legolas. With a determination that was legendary, Thranduil hardened his will against his own heart’s wishes.

“I have not forgotten our conversation, or the promise that I extracted from you. You have kept your word and it is time that I let you know my judgement,” he continued solemnly.

The forest seemed to hold its breath as the king stood for a moment in silence, drowning in the memories of a time that seemed but a whisper ago in his reckoning, when his son had first opened his eyes to a green world that had just been renewed, and had fixed Thranduil in a knowing, pensive gaze. That child had been a true blessing, an unexpected joy amidst the sorrow and grief that had followed the War of the Last Alliance, and Thranduil had to summon all his courage to ruthlessly silence the voice inside his head.  

“You may go south, if that is still your wish, my son,” he said hoarsely before he repented. The relieved expression that shone in Legolas’ face offered bittersweet comfort to the grieved father. Yet, the burden seemed lighter now that the he had taken the first step. “I have decided to release you from any formal obligation,” he continued in a voice that was not so tight. “You will keep all your privileges, as my son and a prince of Lasgalen, but you are no longer bounded to my service in this court, so you can decide where you will be of more use to the realm,” he added with a regal wave of his hand. He allowed himself to bask in the pleased, grateful smile that brightened up his son’s features. He would deal with the pain later, he decided, as his son clasped his arms first and then embraced him tightly.  

“I… I know not what to say, Adar…”  

“Then say nothing, child,” Thranduil smiled faintly. “I grant you my leave. You must decide what to do with it.”  

“I… I just wished…”  

“Do not.” Thranduil searched his son’s troubled face. “There is no point. All we can do is hope that everything happens for some reason, and face whatever comes bravely; as it becomes a son of the House of Oropher,” he added warningly. Legolas managed a small smile.  

“I will not disappoint you, my lord,” he whispered in a choked voice.  

“I know you will not, my son,” Thranduil said. He inhaled deeply and passed an arm across his son’s shoulders. “I have summoned a council tomorrow, to make it official. I wished that you took your time to talk to your wife tonight, but to no one else outside the family…”  

“As you command, my lord…”  

“I shall inform your brother.” Thranduil let escape a brief laugh at Legolas’ wince. “Go, my son,” he added, patting his back and pushing him towards the sward, where their people had gathered to celebrate the safe return of both armies. After a brief look up to the trees, he followed Legolas at a slower pace.  

The celebration had been a moving occasion for remembrance and hope. Now, with their hearts warmed by shared food and wine, many elves were dancing around the fires. Thranduil stood for a moment at the edge of the illuminated area, watching as his people rejoiced in the carefree merrymaking that was distinctive of their kin.  

“You must be proud of him,” he said softly, taking seat at the main table by his eldest son and following his gaze. Mallereg was dancing with his naneth by one of bonfires. It was too long since any of them had last been seen looking so free of worries.  

“I am,” Bôrgalas acknowledged with a half-smile. “Although I have not yet told him so,” he admitted. “Not that there was much time…”  

“Oh, but my grandson is very wise, despite his apparent recklessness. He must have read through his adar’s bright eyes and his tight embrace…” Thranduil joked softly.

The South Host had arrived early that morning, preceded by news of their success. The king and the chief commander had listened to their reports and had not bothered to conceal the pride and satisfaction they took in the younger princes’ achievements. Mallereg had briefed them on the military details and had deferred then to Legolas for an in-depth account of the political measures regarding the Forest Men.  

“I owe him an explanation and an apology, though.”  

“I thought you had already found out that there are times when apologies are not needed, Bôrgalas. Not between father and son,” Thranduil added with a meaningful grin, amused to see that he was still able to make his heir flush like an elfling caught in mischief.  

“I am extremely sorry for what I told you that day, Adar,” the prince said hurriedly. “I am truly ashamed that I let go of myself like that...and that it took me so long to apologize…” 

“I forgave you that very same day, son,” Thranduil said softly. “But you must forgive yourself. Elbereth knows how long it took me to recover from… Dagorlad. You know it too, for you were here to support me,” he added with a thankful smile. “Actually it took...”  

“Don’t say it.” Bôrgalas shook his adar’s hand from his shoulder. “I do not want another child, Adar,” he said in a voice that shook, avoiding his father’s knowing glance.  

Thranduil sighed heavily. 

“Legolas was the last piece, Bôrgalas,” he began after a tense pause. “What I was going to say is that it took me too long to understand how selfish I was being when I refused to heal, when I refused my wife’s comfort, your loyal help, my friends’ support and my naneth’s wise words,” he added sternly. He studied his son’s clouded face and then continued in a softer voice. “Legolas came only when I was ready to admit that there is light beyond the darkness and that there has always been a spring following every winter, no matter how long and hard winter was,” he said pointedly. “No one will ever stand in Borgil’s place, Bôrgalas, and we shall all carry that wound until….the time of reunion is come. But you just have to allow yourself to heal, my son. For your wife, for your son, for all of us.” Thranduil heard his son’s ragged breathing and waited in silence. He knew that his heir hated to show any weakness and that he would most probably keep his father’s words in his mind for long and deep pondering. It ran in the family, after all, he had to admit ruefully.  

“Did you talk to Legolas?” Bôrgalas’ abrupt change of topic surprised Thranduil more than his son’s hoarse voice. He looked up to see Legolas leading Laerîniel away from the fires and most probably to a secluded place where they could talk calmly. He felt a fresh sting of pain and felt absurdly irritated that his eldest son would try to escape his own misery by dwelling on that painful subject. His anger burnt away quickly and left behind a trail of melancholy.  

“I granted him the freedom to choose his path.” The dull sound of his own voice caught him by surprise. Bôrgalas looked at him worriedly.  

“I am sorry, Adar,” he whispered, pressing his father’s arm comfortingly. “But I am sure that Legolas will not desert us,” he added, trying to sound reassuring. Thranduil scowled bitterly at his heir, unable to keep his emotions under control any longer.  

“Surely not,” he said tightly. “But he will leave us, nonetheless,” he almost spat scathingly. “Go to your family, Bôrgalas, and make your peace with them,” Thranduil added in a broken voice. He then stood up abruptly and strode back into the forest, mentally calling to the one who held his heart, the only one who could help him find the strength to overcome that last blow. He soon felt her soothing presence behind him and stopped to allow her reach him and enfold him in her sweet, comforting embrace, as the trees bent their branches to offer their pity and their support to the grieving parents.  

***  

“...And what would your duty be, if I may ask, now that there are no more orcs to carnage?”  

“You forget the spiders. And you make it sound as if killing orcs was something dishonourable…”  

“Far from it, my lord. I would be insulting my adar, if I thought so. Yet I wonder what you intend to do with yourself, who have for all your life been so firmly bent on war and slaughtering…”  

“So you would not insult your adar and still find my devotion to duty close to unbearable…”  

“I just worry that you will ever manage to adjust to a life of peace…”  

“Of course, I remember that you expressed such comforting trust in my abilities in your last letter… What do you want of me, Lendiell?  

“What do you want of me, my lord?”  

“I never asked anything of you, for I knew I had nothing to offer in return... I have been a warrior for all my years, Lendiell, not out of pleasure but because it is my duty to protect the forest and our people. I have not known another life, and yet my efforts were not enough to prevent our dreadful losses… That is what I am, and I do not even know if I am able to learn to live otherwise, but I know that I must try…and I thought that you were willing to help me in that…Now, if you find my presence so agonizing I will not impose upon you any longer. By your leave, my lady…”  

“Mallereg…”  

“What!”  

“You offered to escort me back to my cottage…”  

“He’s wholly, beautifully ensnared…and totally oblivious of it, isn’t he?” Laerîniel shivered as Legolas’ soft whisper caressed her ear. They had been sitting by the river, protected from sight by the underbrush, when the voices of the approaching younger couple had interrupted their own heated conversation. They listened in amused silence as Mallereg groaned exasperatedly and turned back on his steps to see Thalaûr’s youngest daughter home. “Do you think we should warn him? She will not let him go, now that she’s got him to confess…” Legolas added fondly as Lendiell and Mallereg’s voices faded away.  

Too young to join Sûlgalen and Borgil -and her own elder sister- in their games, Thalaûr’s youngest daughter had spent her early childhood sitting upon Mallereg’s shoulders while the eldest prince kept an eye on the bunch of children. Childhood worshipping and youthful infatuation had been overcome in time, and sweet, serene and thoughtful Lendiell had slowly become the steadying presence and the hope and light in Mallereg’s duty-focused life, to his family’s deep relief. But, much as she loved her eldest nephew, Laerîniel suddenly could not help wondering if that caring and patient creature did not actually deserve to be loved by someone else, someone not tainted by guilt and war; someone who had not tasted so deeply the marring of Arda and the despair that it brought along.  

“Should not we rather warn her, that loving one of the House of Oropher can be the cause of deep grief?”  She could not refrain from asking in turn, and as she heard Legolas’ sharp intake she knew he had hurt him more than she had intended to.  

“Are you suggesting that she should stay away from Mallereg just because he has duties to fulfil and he is willing to do so?” he asked brusquely after a tense pause. “That did not dissuade you…”  

“I mean that Lendiell should be told that you of the House of Oropher have an inclination to attend to the needs of those you consider you are bound to serve, even if that means putting them before your own family, Calenben, and that is the cause of deep grief…” she interrupted him in exasperation. “She should be aware that one day or the other Mallereg could ride away saying that it is his duty to protect the Forest Men… or some other unknown neighbour in a distant land.”  

“So you claim that I disregard my family because I have duties as a prince of the realm?”  

“Do not dare lecture me about duty, Legolas, for I have willingly lived under its tight rule since before I married you! Duty kept us apart for long periods, as you patrolled and fought in the marches and I tended to the forest, but this… this is folly! What do you think you owe that Secondborn?”  

“He fought the Dark Lord and freed Middle-earth, Laerîniel; he fought for all of us…”  

“He fought the Dark Lord to earn the right to wed the bride of his heart! And were it not for those who died in the Cail, he might not have had a bride to marry, so do not tell me that we owe him!”   

Again she bit her lip, wishing she had not let those words spill so carelessly, but she was out of herself with grief and dread. He had led her away from the fires in joyful secrecy only to tell her that they had been granted leave to depart to Ithilien. She had felt betrayed that he had not bothered to ask her, although deep in her heart she knew that was a signal of his troubled state of mind. Yet the fear that she might lose him to the sea-longing overcame her reasoning, and so the conversation had degenerated in reproaches, each too immersed in their own feelings to acknowledge the other’s. The respite offered by the tenderly resolved disagreement between Mallereg and Lendiell had not served to cool down their moods, and now they were even more apart that they had been at the beginning.  

“Whatever you think I may -or may not- owe him, I gave him my word to bring elven help south to restore his realm to its beauty, and I intend to fulfil my word,” Legolas said hoarsely, moving slightly so she could not longer feel him leaning against her.  

“You promised me that you would never leave me again…”  

“I told you that you would always be my side, my Sûlaer,” he whispered in a pained voice. “I was sure you would help me down there…” 

“How could you, Legolas! You have been to the Mountains; you have seen the damages in our forest, you have listened to its grieving song! It is going to take a long time to heal those wounds and most of the lands we are not sure that will ever recover! How can you think that I would be willing to forsake these trees that have given us life and shelter," she pleaded in a broken voice, her anger almost spent in incredulity. "These trees that have seen our children grow and have provided our livelihood for ages, abandon them for other woods whose voices I have never heard! Our forest should be first, and you of all people, as the King’s son, should know that!”    

A heavy silence settled between them, blanketing even the rustling of the leaves.  

“I am wounded, my Sûlaer...” His uncertain voice finally made it through the numbness that had taken over them. He stretched his hand tentatively and she held it tightly, possessively, feeling as she did so that he was drifting too far away, where she could not, dared not, follow.  

“Is this about the sea-longing or about your word, Legolas? We could go north, where the trees are untainted! Their song is so strong that the sea- longing will not reach you there…” But as she spoke, she suddenly realized that she could not hear the tree-song echoing in their bond as it used to; that his faer clung desperately to hers and held strongly to the music that resonated within her, and she finally understood his plight. She had become used to that monochord drumming in his prolonged absences, a dull beat that was just a mere breeze when compared to the enhanced perception of the forest song that ran both ways through a couple’s bond, and so she had not really understood until now that he was definitely unable to hear the voices of the trees. Overwhelmed by his loss, she did not stop to consider what it also meant to her, now doomed to hold on to memories of a music she would most probably never hear again in its full glory. “Maybe we could…” she stammered, and his forlorn smile pierced her heart.  

“This is about us…” he whispered, his voice almost inaudible, and she pressed her face against his chest and let her desperate tears mingle with his in a song very different from what she had expected to hear that night. 

***

Ithilien, last days of February, 120 Fourth Age.  

“The trees are healing fast…I feared it would take them far longer to regain their strength, but even around the ruins or Minas Ithil their recovery is very promising, for such a short lapse…”  

The morning mist was lifting slowly, unthreading its silver wisps from the long, grey-needled branches of a tall cedar that crowned a hill overseeing the heart of the elven settlement in Ithilien. Two elves were sitting on its lower branches, their black and golden heads glistening with the morning dew, their cloaks stained and travel worn. The first rays of the sun climbed over the Ephel Dúath, the once dreaded Mountains of Shadow that loomed in west, unveiling a land of pleasant valleys granted to the Elves of Lasgalen by the King Elessar.  

“The land will need longer to forget, though,” the dark-haired elf added. “I suppose it is the same around Amon Lanc.” 

Legolas listened in silence. He was still trying to decide whether it had been a short span or an elven life-time, since he had arrived there with the first group of settlers. Less than an ennin had passed, a whisper in elven reckoning, yet in that time he had seen several generations of Men come to age -and then age to waste- in what at times still seemed the blink of an eye to him.  

But Eomer had died.  

And then Eowyn.  

And the Periannath, too.  

Even Faramir, for all his Numenorean blood.  

Things had changed dramatically around there, so time had passed indeed, Legolas reasoned. Why, he was a grandfather now, although he had not yet met the beautiful elleth who had so much resembled his own daughter at birth, he had been told.  

And still, his adar’s calm, businesslike voice still rang clearly in his head as he had heard it in council, the morning after he and Mallereg returned from the cleansing of the southern marches, not an ennin ago, informing war captains and foresters, and settlement leaders and court counsellors of a new development.  

“We will keep a settlement in Ithilien under the rule of Prince Legolas, to provide the requested help and counsel to the new King of Gondor, our friend and ally. They will help restore that land, and in return, their presence there will ease off some pressure from our ailing forest, bringing back new seeds and much needed fare, while our trees recover their strength.”  

With the shrewdness that had seen him through countless trials in his long life, Thranduil had turned loss into gain, sorrow into promise, desertion into duty and despair into hope. That had been almost one hundred and twenty sun rounds ago, Legolas told himself. The trees in Lasgalen had recovered too, to the point that they could now provide the livelihood for the wildlife and the elves without risk. Seeds and sprouts from trees that grew in Ithilien had been sent to Lasgalen, and the Greenwood’s song had been enriched with southern melodies. Birds and animals from Lasgalen now roamed happily in Ithilien, resettled there to save them from hunger or over hunting.  

How could it be then, Legolas wondered in awe, that so much had changed, so much had been achieved and yet the pain was still fresh in his mind as if it all had happened yesterday? That was the risk of meddling in the affairs of mortals, he knew. Change was so fast that it disturbed elven perception, until the firstborn could no longer discern the pace of passing time.  

He shrugged to his companion, for lack of better answer, and pointed the steep way down. They were approaching Legolas’ forest home after a short visit to North Ithilien, and the trees sang in warm welcome to their lord.  

“It never ceases to amaze me, though,” Legolas’ companion commented as they made their way swiftly across still naked branches, “how fiercely Men fought against the Shadow…to defend their right to despoil their own lands after their own fashion…”  

It was a gibe intended to shake him from his melancholy mood, Legolas knew, yet with one look west he was well reminded of what had provoked it. Gondor had indeed blossomed under Elessar’s wise ruling. Homesteads, farmlands, warehouses, workshops, shipyards and docks crowded the Western shore of the Anduin, and were showing up in the eastern one as well; mostly around Emyn Arnen, the Steward’s residence. The princedom of Ithilien was now a thriving land, as it was Lossarnach, and a new port had been built south of Harlond, to cope with the increasing traffic of goods. The ever growing human settlements were slowly but steadily encroaching the elves, forcing them East, to the now protective, pine covered skirts of the Ephel Dúath.  Of course no one had yet dared contend the privileges and rights of the elves to that stretch of unspoilt land, but the proximity of men’s activities was beginning to disturb the forest and its residents.  

“My adar must have been so happy to see you coming to Ithilien, Prestolon!” Legolas jabbed back good-naturedly. “Yet I cannot help wondering why you decided to grace me with your presence.”  

“Insects are to be found around a blooming tree, Legolas.”  

“That sounds like something a very ill-tempered tree would say.”  

“Actually it is something your grandfather proclaimed with malicious glee…”  

“He must have met some ill-tempered trees in his time…”  

“Most certainly,” the Silvan leader admitted, keeping a straight face as they came to a secluded glade where a young doe grazed peacefully.  

“Why did you come down here, Prestolon?” Legolas asked more seriously as they waited in silence while the rest of the family joined the adventurous doe and then disappeared deeper in the forest.  

“We Silvan elves never tire of meeting new trees and learning new voices…” he explained as he absentmindedly studied the branches that would be exploding with new life in a few more days, as spring finally settled down. With a brief nod he resumed their march through the trees with Legolas trailing after him, lost in thought.  

The short-tempered Silvan leader had become the link between Lasgalen and the colony in Ithilien. He had faithfully supported Legolas in the first years, working hand in hand with those who had followed him there; mostly wives and children of the members of the Home Guard who had fallen at the battle of the ford, but also settlers who could not stand returning to their devastated homes. The Warden had sent a small group of foresters, and they had all worked very hard to heal the land and to turn that side of the Great River into a welcoming elven dwelling.  

Now that things were well on their way, and that Ithilien was a well-tended land where the elves roamed free of care, Prestolon still returned to spend a sun-round or two every twelve years or so, bringing news from Lasgalen and carrying Legolas’ messages back home.  

“And it is also a good thing, to have this route to the sea open again,” he ended softly. Legolas cast him a brief, surprised glance.  

“Do you ever think of it, Prestolon?” he asked after some time, as they reached a tall elm. “The sea?”  

The Silvan shrugged briefly.  

“From time to time,” he admitted. “You were too young when Nimrodel strayed, but at that time many elves from Greenwood fled to the sea, too. My wife was one of them.” Legolas nodded quietly. Laerîniel’s naneth had also been among those unable to overcome the new wave of dread that had threatened the elven realms at that time. Gaerthûl, Laerîniel’s adar, had retired then to the northern marches and had become a solitary and grumpy forester.  

“It is said that the sea-longing lies asleep within all of us,” Prestolon continued thoughtfully. “Cannot say. Never heard it myself. And, no matter how much I miss Côfiel, I find it hard to see myself ever forsaking Middle-earth…”  

“So?” Legolas’ voice sounded strangled. As the sun-rounds wore on, he felt it more difficult to discern the voices of the trees from those of the waters, which now tugged at him insistently, mingling with the breeze and with the memory of Laerîniel’s voice, or even with the songs of the birds. He held on to the faint hope that, when he finally chose to answer that call, Laerîniel would be with him.  

“So?” There was sympathy on the stern elf’s face. “I just hope, Legolas. I just hope that one day I will wake up and feel that mysterious calling, as I have seen happen to friends and relatives, who were then unable to explain how, or why or when. Or that I will know deep inside me that my time here has come to an end. Don’t look so surprised!” he added with a smirk. “It took me long to come to admit that,” he confessed with a rueful smile.  

“Tell me how it feels not to hear the forest’s true voice,” Legolas demanded brusquely. He met Prestolon’s curious glance defiantly and then lowered his. “I know how it is,” he admitted softly. Of course he knew, the deafening silence around him the day he finally took his leave from his adar’s power and Laerîniel’s nurturing presence.  “But I wondered…”  

“You wonder how it is for Laerîniel.” Prestolon’s voice sounded unexpectedly compassionate. “We elves live on the memories of things which once were, as you well know, Legolas. I refused those memories at first, and so I lived like the Secondborn: Blind, deaf, dumb, deprived of being. I was estranged from the forest. I took to myself, to the darkest depths of the woods, wishing I’d meet my end there. Had Mandos claimed me then, most assuredly I would have refused him and become one of the houseless instead, so black was my anger and so deep my despair…” He smiled bitterly, meeting Legolas’ concerned gaze, and signalled him to stop for a moment. “Yet, as your grandfather liked to repeat, there has always been a spring following a winter, and an autumn after the plenty of summer; and such is the way of things. And so one day a spring full of promise finally came to me, and I allowed the memory of the forest song, as it used to ring through our bond, fill me anew and bring me back to life…”

“But you still miss her…”

“With every breath,” the elder elf answered sincerely.  “But I have learnt to live with the memory of her song, of our song, and that sustains me for now. It is like a dull pain, a feeling of emptiness that it is just waiting to be filled. I fear that I would feel guilty, if I sailed after her and abandoned the forest. I fear I would die there of longing... And still I hold on to the hope that one day that emptiness shall lead me to the sea. Not an easy choice for those remaining, you see,” he added with a brief chuckle, jumping brusquely to the ground and taking a faint trail that veered west, rather than following the trees to Fergobel, Legolas’ dwelling in the heart of the thick forest.

“Do you think that Laerîniel…?” After a short hesitation, Legolas hurried after him, picking the message from the trees. An awaited, and most welcome visitor was already waiting in the clearing, the furthest guests were allowed to venture without an elven escort.

“She is wise, Legolas,” Prestolon reassured him. “But it takes time to separate one's wounded pride from the love of the land and the call of the bond. And then, it takes much courage to willingly forsake the lands you are tied to, and sail into the unknown... But she is fighting bravely.”  

Legolas knew that she had been leading the foresters’ endless efforts in the most damaged areas. Her letters were brief, but he could still perceive her teary, weary voice seeping through her composed words. 

And he missed her dearly.  

Yet it was good, hearing from home, Legolas thought as he followed Prestolon. He could picture familiar faces, and voices and sounds in his mind and be satisfied with that…Until he was alone in his beech house and the sea-longing contended with another, older yearning that was not appeased but inflamed by memories. The trees around his home had learnt his moods and were able to sooth him whenever longing hit worst. The newness of their voices still managed to distract him from his thoughts, but at times he could not help wondering how it would feel for his Sûlaer, alone in the Greenwood, sitting by the Old Beech and knowing that the ancient tree’s song would never again sound in her ears as it used to whenever they met under her welcoming branches. He felt wretchedly guilty then, and he could not discard the fear that coiled within him.  

“How will she know, Prestolon?” he asked in a soft, quivering voice. The Silvan understood the unspoken question too. When will she know?  

“We are attuned to the forest, aren’t we?” he answered. “So one day she will feel that she no longer belongs there, that she is a stranger to the forest, that the trees grow silent and their voices duller. It takes time; different amounts to each of us, but we elves know. I have seen it happen,” he reassured Legolas as they walked the last stretch towards the clearing, which in winter resembled more a naked room vaulted in branches than a living gathering place. “Much as we know when a mighty oak has reached its last spring, and not just because of the look of its trunk, or its leaves or its branches, but for the beauty of its song,” he added in a respectful voice. And then, bowing deeply, he greeted their visitor. “Mae govannen, King Elessar, the trees rejoice in your presence.”  

“Mae govannen, Master Prestolon. I was not aware that you still honoured Ithilien with yours,” the visitor answered in a low, faintly amused voice, rising courteously -but with some difficulty- from the wooden bench under the old olive tree that stood in the midst of the clearing.  

“I intend to remain at least until spring is settled, Your Majesty. Is there anything that you would require of me in the meantime?” 

“Rather at your departure, my friend.” Elessar met the Silvan’s grave gaze steadily. “I would ask you to carry a message to King Thranduil, when you return to Lasgalen.”  

“It will be my pleasure to serve you, King Elessar.”  

“My thanks, Master Prestolon. I shall see to it that it is delivered to you in due time.”  

“Fare you well, Elessar, with the blessings of the Elves,” Prestolon said softly, bowing again before the King of Men. “By your leave my lord,” he nodded briefly to Legolas, who watched the exchange as if frozen, and disappeared silently towards the heart of the forest.  

“So? Are things that bad in North Ithilien that the Lord of the Elven settlement needs to plant himself like a tree?” Aragorn joked softly at his friend. “You will excuse this old man, though; I think I’ll rather take a seat...”  

“Things are better than expected in North Ithilien.” Legolas stated, forcing a tight smile as he walked into the clearing and sat by his friend, still shaken by Prestolon’s solemn behaviour.  

“I am glad to hear that. Gimli sends his greetings and says that he will join you in a couple of days. When I last saw him he was very busy inspecting the foundations for an enlargement in the stables…”  

As his friend began a detailed account of the latest architectural developements in his city, Legolas allowed himself to take in the signs he had been refusing to see. Aragorn resembled indeed an old oak which had drained his vigour for long years in the service of the forest and was now barely able to pump the green flow of life up to its tallest branches, its living skin almost completely turned into heartwood.  

His grey cloak flowed freely in the late winter breeze over a thinned, sinewy frame which retained hardly else than a memory of former strength.  Legolas also noticed the wrinkled hands with gnarled fingers and swollen joints, hands that wielded the rod of office with the same resolution with which they had wielded Andúril against darkness. The mane that had once glistened blue-black was now full grey and quite lusterless, but it still framed a face of power and dignity, the face of the man who had led the Army of the West before the Morannon and had ruled justly and wisely over a great kingdom.  

And still a man, Legolas thought in dismay, a frail mortal of short life! He bit back the bitter taste of mortality, the wave of compassion and despair that swelled inside. As one who had seen many a tree reach its ruinous age, Legolas knew that the mightiest ones yielded their lives with the greatest grace; and he knew that to be true of Men, too.  

A flash of gold in one wrinkled hand raised to put aside a silvery strand of hair reminded Legolas that this, though, was no common man. A Man he is, but one who has the blood of Lúthien in his veins, he told himself, seeing the Ring of Barahir on that knotty finger. And the thought comforted him as he sat there, enjoying the beautiful song of his friend’s voice as it rang in the clearing. What he talked about, Legolas did not care, for this was his farewell, he knew; an ordinary morning spent in ordinary conversation. It was time; the most precious gift that a mortal could offer to an immortal.  

I wonder if he knows when, he thought; and suddenly, as if reading his mind, a fiery gaze met his, and it was the blazing, knowing look of the King, but also of Aragorn the Dúnadan, the wisest of living Men.  

Of course he knows, Legolas berated himself, as Aragorn turned his attention to his well-worn boots, a companionable silence now settled between them. Soon. He has been saying his farewells for some time now…  

The three of them had enjoyed a memorable dinner some nights ago, right after Gimli arrived in Minas Tirith, no doubt summoned by Aragorn himself. Or perhaps by Arwen. The grumpy son of Durin, true to his nature and with his own lode of mithril streaking his dark braid and beard, had attributed the tiring journey to a whimsical inclination of his.  

Wine and memories –and pipe weed- had flowed freely that night, and they had greeted dawn upon the ramparts, looking over the wide lands of the Pelennor and drinking to those who were there no more. That had been another present, a memory that Legolas would treasure for all his living years, he knew.  

“Legolas, there is something…”  

He was ready to talk now, Legolas thought, bracing for what was yet to come.  

“I was raised among elves, as you know,” Aragorn began in a voice that was strong and firm and pleasant as it had been when Legolas had first heard it. “And strange as it seemed to me at first, I eventually learned what memories mean to your race.” He met the elf’s perplexed gaze and winced. “What I mean is that I know that… you will bring your memories with you to the Blessed Realm, and they will not hurt you there, but offer you comfort, so I do not worry that you might be burdened and haunted by memories…I wanted you to know that….”  

“Thank you, Aragorn, I can see that you actually learned your lessons,” Legolas answered, lifting his brows in growing puzzlement.  

“Let me speak!” He cast his friend a mildly reproving glare. “I am telling you because I have heard how it is for you elves, but I want to make sure that you understand how it is to us, humans…”  

“I hear you.”  

“My thanks. I have accomplished more than any other living man, and much of it I owe to you, my friend. We have fought together, and have struggled together in peaceful times, and you have honoured me and my people with your friendship and your support. I know not of words in the tongues of Men or Elves to tell you how richer our lives have been made by your presence here, Legolas, and only the One knows how indebted I am with your wife, and your King and your forest.”  

Legolas nodded briefly, acknowledging his friend’s gratitude with all simplicity, wondering where all that was leading.  

“Yet I would like that you knew, with the same certainty which tells me that your memories shall be your treasure in the years to come,  that I shall now embrace my gift without sorrow or regret, as it was the privilege of my ancestors. I have had a life of plenty and I have seen a new age dawning beyond hope. I leave behind a land in peace in a world that has been healed. There is nothing else that I miss, anything that I would have at this time, Legolas, and were I offered the life of the elder race at this point, I would refuse it.” He stopped for a moment to regain his breathing and cast a quick look at his friend, who listened in attentive silence. “I do not long for a fate that is not mine,” he continued slowly, fully aware of the weight of his words. “Nor begrudge a gift not meant for mortals. I am a Man of the West, and were the Evenstar to finally take ship, still I would not despair, for I know that we who once called each other friend, brother, father, son, husband or wife... We shall all meet again beyond the circles of the world, and that is the Gift of Men, which I would not give up for anything.”  

Legolas sat unmoving, silent, and the birds sang undisturbed among the early sprouts and the needled branches of the cedars for a while before the Elf finally spoke in an awed voice which sounded clearer than the singing waters of a mountain stream.  

“It is painful for us to watch you mortals die,” he managed finally. “But your hope is my comfort and your strength rekindles mine. Memories indeed shall be a joyful company the Blessed Realm, but for these words I am most grateful, Aragorn, for they put my heart at ease and remind me, yet again, of the endless courage of your race. It shall not be forgotten, my lord.”  

“Let us not call bravery what is unavoidable fate,” Aragorn chuckled to hide his emotion. “But I am comforted that my words helped you. There is nothing to grieve about in this parting, and we who have fought worst enemies, shall no doubt prevail over the tides of time..”  

“So be it, my friend.”

They sat there in companionable silence, stretching time in a way Legolas would have never thought possible. The sun was very high in the horizon when Aragorn finally let escape a deep sigh and brought hismself up on his feet with the measured composure of old age. He scowled briefly at Legolas' swift, graceful movement and then smiled softly, almost to himself.

“I have been more than blessed with your friendship, Legolas. May Elbereth guide you to a safe haven, and may all your treasures meet you there and give you comfort for all your living days,” Aragorn said in a voice that was no more than a broken whisper.  

“May the line of Elessar live long and prosperous years. Your memory and that of the Evenstar shall live forever in the songs of the Elves, my friend, and those will be of joy and praise.“  

They clasped arms in the manner of warriors and then pulled each other into a tight embrace, heart beating against heart for a moment that became forever. Finally, Aragorn let go and gave Legolas’ arms a final shake.  

“Fare you well, Legolas,” he said in a firm voice; and because there were no more words left unsaid between the two of them, he turned his back on his elven friend and walked away to where his horse waited patiently, without ever looking back.

Legolas stood there, watching his friend until he disappeared from sight, knowing that he would not see him again among the living.  

**

Not a moon had went by after the passing of King Elessar when a messenger in the black and silver livery of the citadel walked into the clearing that marked the border of the elven settlement, carrying a voluminous bundle. He spoke a few hushed words with two elven guards who met him there and departed again with a deep bow.  

“…and he said the Queen Evenstar left the city last eve, with no word of her intended purpose and with a small escort,” on of the guards informed Legolas on his flet upon a mighty beech, as the prince studied the contents of the parcel.  

“Are you ready to depart in the morning, Prestolon?” Legolas asked in a soft, tight voice. Arwen’s gift lay on the table glistening under the unsteady light that filtered through the canopy. It was a white sail of exquisitely woven linen, delicately embroidered here and there with mithril leaves intertwined with stars.  

“As you command, my lord,” the Silvan leader nodded in acquiescence. Legolas picked up the bundle of letters that accompanied the sail and walked to a small niche on the tree trunk where he kept a carved coffer. He placed Arwen’s messages in the chest and took out two folded and sealed parchments which he handed quietly to Prestolon. There was a respectful, pained silence in the flet.  

“Come, Gimli,” Legolas said then with the faintest trace of a smile. “I know where your axe and your skills can be put to good use,” he told his friend with a conniving wink. Reassured, despite Aragorn’s subtly expressed concern, that Arwen had indeed accepted her fate and would soon embrace her gift, Legolas felt there was nothing else left for him to do but answering the call that raged inside him and hoping that his Sûlaer would be ready to join him when the moment came.

In the meantime, they had a ship to build.  

Before the sun rose next morning, a chestnut mare sped across the Pelennor and past the White City. Prestolon rode away carrying the last words of King Elessar to his friend King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen.

But he carried other messages as well.  

***

Two years after the passing of King Elessar, a solitary rider reached the new harbour south of Harlond, asking for passage to the eastern side of the Anduin. This enough would have served to identify him as an elf -since none but the people of Prince Legolas used that crossing- had not his glittering eyes and the unmatchable grace of his step already revealed him as such to the crew. With a courteous nod he disembarked, mounted and rode silently into the forest.  

A few days after that, the King’s Harbourmaster walked the docks before dawn, overseeing the unloading of a valuable shipment that had arrived during the night. Most of the goods came from distant Harad, and they were immediately hauled into carts and transported to Minas Tirith. The night had been busy and now he listened distractedly to one of his clerks who was complaining about some unfulfilled procedure. To hide his annoyance, the harbourmaster let his gaze glide over the familiar, relaxing landscape of the eastern shore.  

“My lord?”  

The harbourmaster glanced guiltily at his assistant, and managed to understand something about a fine and a mountain of paper load. About to give his consent, he looked again at the other shore and blinked in surprise. He shook his head incredulously and then called a passing mariner.  

“Look over there and tell me what you see!” he demanded imperiously. The mariner looked from puzzled clerk to expectant captain and then did as he was ordered.  

“There is nothing strange, Captain,” he began. “I can see the shore, their trees, their quay…” and then gasped and fell silent. The captain nodded silently.  

“Find me a messenger. A messenger to the King and another to the Steward,” he commanded the perplexed assistant, who was grateful to have a reason to scurry away from the harbourmaster’s almost demented gaze.  

“I looked away for a moment and when I looked back it wasn’t there,” he told the mariner, who nodded gloomily. They had all become used to the sight of the white, graceful boat with the glistening sail which had been built under their approving, knowledgeable eyes, and then moored in the elven dock for the greatest part of a sun-round, awaiting no one knew what sign.  

“They are gone,” the captain murmured in dismay. He was a true seaman, born and raised in Dol Amroth. To him Elves were like a treasured family relic. “Gone to the Straight Road…Our lands and shores will be a lot duller now,” he sighed, dragging himself reluctantly from the docks to compose the messages, as the sad news spread around the harbour like wildfire.  

No one knew how it had happened, or how many had actually sailed away, but the tale of the white ship that had vanished in the thin air grew in the telling, and if there were any Elves left in Ithilien, no one ever saw them again, so the knowledge of their existence passed into oblivion, only to become another legend from the soon mythical rule of King Elessar, for such is the short-lived memory of mortal men.

TBC