Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 16:32:47 GMT
Author: Wanderer of Realms
The sun had set hours ago, the end of a long and tiring day. Luckily, it was the last one before the council adjourned for the winter. Legolas rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake to finish the beginnings of a trade agreement with the Shire. He leaned back and propped his boots up on his desk, glancing out the window, startled to see fluffy white snowflakes already drifting down from the dark sky. Winter had come; the farmers and merchants would lay down their pitchforks and caravans. People would flood into the city for warmth and winter festivities.
His study door opened.
“My lord?” asked the voice of his assistant, Arahel.
“Yes?”
“I received a note from Queen Arwen Undomiel of Gondor.”
Legolas picked up the letter from Arahel’s tray. “Thank you, Arahel. That will be all.”
Arahel nodded and left, making barely a sound on the soft rug as he exited.
With an uncomfortable sense of dread, Legolas broke open the seal and scanned the letter. There were barely a few paragraphs, written by a hurried hand. He looked up in shock.
The King of Gondor was dead.
Aragorn had talked about it sometimes, an inevitable occurrence that always seemed distant in the future. But it had never been as close as it was now.
Legolas rose and strode to the window, looking to the south, as if he could see the White City himself from leagues away. Bells would be tolling, people would be in mourning black. Plans would be made for a funeral. Flowers would be laid in the streets. An entire nation would be grieving. Legolas’s vision grew clearer as tears pricked his eyes. Such was the curse of the immortality of the Eldar. Watching as the world fell away, everything changing beyond belief, while you stay the same, age after age after age.
He remembered when he had first met the young Ranger in the wilderness. He had been brasher and quicker to act than King Elessar. The Ranger never wanted the crown. The Ranger was comfortable as one of the Dunedain. When Legolas first met him, he thought that Strider was somewhat of a strange, severe man. He didn’t laugh a lot, but had one heck of a skill with the sword. But as the two got closer, Legolas discovered that Strider was much more than that. He was a kid finding his mark, his place in the world. He was still trying to figure out what to do with his lineage. He was a born leader. He was courageous and undaunted by anything that stood in his way. He was one that knew your strengths without using them for his own agenda. But it wasn’t until the journey of the Fellowship of the Ring for Legolas to realize that he was a king.
He remembered the days in the wild, when it was just him and Strider hunting an orc pack through the mountains, or finding an ancient troll-hoard with Strider, Elladan and Elrohir. He remembered the prank wars played on each other, involving liberal amounts of cream, honey, laughter and sometimes an arrow or two. Legolas laughed a little, despite the unrelenting tears. He remembered the stories told under a blanket of stars and trees by a roaring campfire. Most of all, he remembered his friend. Legolas let the memories sweep over him, trying to wash away the stain of the day, trying to soothe the dull ache in his chest.
There was no way to revive him from the dead. But Legolas knew that memories were a way to keep him alive in his mind, in the minds of the entire land, to commemorate and honor the man that had changed the world in such a profound way. So as the King of the Woodland Realm made plans to return to the kingdom of his old companion, he kept his memories of Aragorn tucked close in his heart and in his mind. For memories, the distant echoes of such a great man, were the only way to keep him alive.
The sun had set hours ago, the end of a long and tiring day. Luckily, it was the last one before the council adjourned for the winter. Legolas rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake to finish the beginnings of a trade agreement with the Shire. He leaned back and propped his boots up on his desk, glancing out the window, startled to see fluffy white snowflakes already drifting down from the dark sky. Winter had come; the farmers and merchants would lay down their pitchforks and caravans. People would flood into the city for warmth and winter festivities.
His study door opened.
“My lord?” asked the voice of his assistant, Arahel.
“Yes?”
“I received a note from Queen Arwen Undomiel of Gondor.”
Legolas picked up the letter from Arahel’s tray. “Thank you, Arahel. That will be all.”
Arahel nodded and left, making barely a sound on the soft rug as he exited.
With an uncomfortable sense of dread, Legolas broke open the seal and scanned the letter. There were barely a few paragraphs, written by a hurried hand. He looked up in shock.
The King of Gondor was dead.
Aragorn had talked about it sometimes, an inevitable occurrence that always seemed distant in the future. But it had never been as close as it was now.
Legolas rose and strode to the window, looking to the south, as if he could see the White City himself from leagues away. Bells would be tolling, people would be in mourning black. Plans would be made for a funeral. Flowers would be laid in the streets. An entire nation would be grieving. Legolas’s vision grew clearer as tears pricked his eyes. Such was the curse of the immortality of the Eldar. Watching as the world fell away, everything changing beyond belief, while you stay the same, age after age after age.
He remembered when he had first met the young Ranger in the wilderness. He had been brasher and quicker to act than King Elessar. The Ranger never wanted the crown. The Ranger was comfortable as one of the Dunedain. When Legolas first met him, he thought that Strider was somewhat of a strange, severe man. He didn’t laugh a lot, but had one heck of a skill with the sword. But as the two got closer, Legolas discovered that Strider was much more than that. He was a kid finding his mark, his place in the world. He was still trying to figure out what to do with his lineage. He was a born leader. He was courageous and undaunted by anything that stood in his way. He was one that knew your strengths without using them for his own agenda. But it wasn’t until the journey of the Fellowship of the Ring for Legolas to realize that he was a king.
He remembered the days in the wild, when it was just him and Strider hunting an orc pack through the mountains, or finding an ancient troll-hoard with Strider, Elladan and Elrohir. He remembered the prank wars played on each other, involving liberal amounts of cream, honey, laughter and sometimes an arrow or two. Legolas laughed a little, despite the unrelenting tears. He remembered the stories told under a blanket of stars and trees by a roaring campfire. Most of all, he remembered his friend. Legolas let the memories sweep over him, trying to wash away the stain of the day, trying to soothe the dull ache in his chest.
There was no way to revive him from the dead. But Legolas knew that memories were a way to keep him alive in his mind, in the minds of the entire land, to commemorate and honor the man that had changed the world in such a profound way. So as the King of the Woodland Realm made plans to return to the kingdom of his old companion, he kept his memories of Aragorn tucked close in his heart and in his mind. For memories, the distant echoes of such a great man, were the only way to keep him alive.