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Thranduil sat in his study, staring listlessly out of the window.
He had scarcely moved from this room over the last two weeks, had
barely eaten or slept, for the uneasy feeling that something was very,
very wrong hung over him relentlessly. Legolas. He knew
that some evil fate had befallen his son.
A sentry entered the room, and cleared his throat. “My Lord? Your
Majesty?”
At last, slowly, Thranduil turned. From the sentry’s expression,
he had probably been there for at least five minutes, trying to attract
the King’s attention. The guards, servants and his advisors were
all being amazingly patient with him, for it was by no means the first
time this had happened. “Yes?”
“My Lord, a delegation approaches. From Gondor.”
Thranduil felt a brief flicker of curiosity. “From Gondor?”
It was not quite the news he had been expecting. He had rather
thought the messenger would be from Ithilien.
“Yes, my Lord. They bear the banner of Gondor. But - it has
a border of black.”
“Black is the colour of mourning in the world of men. Do you know
who the messenger is yet?”
The sentry hesitated, reluctant to reveal the messenger’s
identity. He and several others had made their views plain in the
barracks in the past, and he could not fathom why the creature was
still permitted to visit.
“Well?” Thranduil demanded.
The sentry wore an expression of distaste. “It is the
dwarf,” he said at last.
“His name is Gimli,” Thranduil pointed out absently. “Remember
that. He was a friend of my son’s. When he arrives, send
him to me immediately. You will treat him as an honoured
guest.”
The sentry bowed, chastened by the reprimand. “Yes, my
Lord. I apologise. I will not forget in future.” He
left, but at the door turned in puzzlement. How strange that the
King had used the past tense. It sounded almost as if the dwarf
was no longer a friend of Prince Legolas. He smiled. That
news would displease very few.
As the sentry left, Thranduil turned again to the window, looking out
over the forest. Between the trees he could see riders
approaching, a dozen in all. Two rode in the lead, bearing a
banner with a white tree, crowned with seven stars. The banner
was edged with black. Behind them rode Gimli, his face
downcast. With the arrival of the delegation from Gondor, their
banner, and the presence of Legolas’ dwarven friend, it was becoming
harder and harder to deny the truth. He waited, silently,
for the inevitable.
After a while, the sentry returned, with Gimli in tow. He bowed
again.
“My Lord, this is Gimli, Lord of the glittering caves of Aglarond, who
is named ‘Elf-Friend’. He says he bears tiding for you.” He
put as much sarcasm as he dared into his voice when announcing the
dwarf’s titles – Elf-Friend indeed! – but Thranduil ignored him.
Thranduil nodded absently. “Thank you. You may leave us
now.” As the sentry retreated thankfully, with a final disdainful
look, Thranduil turned to Gimli. “Lord Gimli, you are most
welcome here again. You have news for me?”
Gimli dropped his eyes, staring at a point somewhere around Thranduil’s
knees. “Aye, my Lord Thranduil. I do. But I fear - I
fear I bear bad news. Very bad news.” His voice was even
gruffer than usual.
Thranduil waited for the final blow. “Well?” he questioned.
The dwarf wore a cap of soft brown leather, worn and stained through
much use. A tracery of leaves had been stitched across it,
obviously Elvish in design. He reached up and pulled the
cap off, holding it tightly, twisting it between his hands as he tried
to find the words.
“My lord Thranduil – your Majesty -” Gimli finally looked up, and
met Thranduil’s eyes. “Legolas is dead,” he said simply.
Thranduil nodded slowly. “Yes. I feared it was so.
But what happened?
Gimli looked at him in astonishment. “You - you knew?”
Thranduil merely nodded again. “I knew,” he said
flatly. The last vestiges of hope had crumbled as Gimli entered
the room, when Thranduil had seen the dwarf’s expression and desperate
sorrow. But in his heart he had known long before that.
“What happened?” he asked again.
Stumbling and hesitant, Gimli recounted events as best he could.
He told Thranduil of the storm. Of Legolas’ death, as he had
heard it from Aragorn. Of the dreadful vigil. Of
Arwen’s revelation. Of the decision to burn Legolas, rather
than entomb him in cold stone.
“So - so that is what we did. Arwen and Aragorn felt it would be
more - fitting.”
“So she remembered.” Thranduil said softly, almost to
himself. It had been so very long ago; Legolas had been scarcely
more than a child, and Arwen even younger. But he would never
forget Arwen’s courage that day. Although clearly frightened, she
had not once moved from Legolas’ side.
Gimli continued. “I left Minas Tirith later that day to bring you
the news. I am so very sorry. I wish I could bear better
tidings.”
“So do I, Lord Gimli. So do I. But thank you. You were a
loyal friend to my son.” Thranduil could hear the unaccustomed
roughness in his own voice from suppressed emotion. “Would –
would you leave me now? Someone will show you to your rooms, and
your escort as well.”
As Gimli nodded an acknowledgement, Thranduil turned away
abruptly. He heard the door open and close behind the
dwarf. When he was certain he was alone, he sank down,
groping blindly behind him for a seat. Head bowed, he finally
gave in to the utter despair he had been trying to deny for so long,
and wept.
He wept for Legolas, who had died so needlessly, so senselessly, and he
wept for himself, for his own pain, bereft of all those he had ever
loved. He wept for Lasgalen, now facing slow decline and
ruin. He wept for the knowledge that he would never see his son
again.
There had been the sudden, shocking awareness that something dreadful had happened,
but at first he could not tell what, thinking that perhaps some
disaster had befallen the forest. Then there had been the slow
realization that the foreboding centred on his son. Gradually he
realized that his faint awareness of Legolas, always present, was no
longer there. It was something that had been with him for more
than an age, something so familiar he was not even conscious of it,
something he had only noticed now in its absence. He had tried
desperately to tell himself that he could be wrong, that he was making
a mistake, that he was misinterpreting what he felt. But in his
heart he had known the truth. And now it was confirmed, in all
its tragedy.
Ai, Legolas! I always tried not
to let you see just how much I feared for your safety every time you
left on a patrol. Or when you left for Imladris, following
Gollum’s escape. You were so full of grief, anger, guilt and
anguish. But you always knew how I felt. You would
tell me I worried too much, and would promise to return safely.
With the fall of Sauron, and when you settled in Ithilien, I thought I
could finally stop worrying about you!
Legolas had come through so much, had survived so much: the cave-in
beneath Lasgalen which Gimli had spoken of, the spider attack, being
held captive by Corvus and his henchmen, the mission to Dol
Guldur. He had even escaped, virtually unscathed, the
terrible battles of the War of the Ring. After all that, his
death seemed even more of a senseless, tragic waste. And it was
so unjust. In building the colony in Ithilien, Legolas had never
been busier, but at the same time Thranduil had never seen him so happy
or fulfilled.
Thranduil remained sunk in despair and misery as outside his windows
the evening gradually darkened. He started at the touch of a
gentle hand on his shoulder.
“My lord? My lord Thranduil?”
It was Lanatus. He wore an expression of extreme concern and
sorrow.
“Lanatus? Why are you here?” Thranduil realised he sounded
somewhat dazed and bewildered.
“I just spoke with the escort from Minas Tirith. They told me of
the message that - that the dwarf carried.” Like the previous
messenger, Lanatus did not approve of Gimli.
“I see. Thank you, Lanatus, for your concern.” With an
immense effort, Thranduil composed himself. “Would you pass the
message on to my counsellors? This news has to be passed to all
the realm.”
“My Lord, it is already done. Rumour was rife when the dwarf
appeared without Prince Legolas, when people saw the banner. I
came to say - to say - that you have my deepest sympathy. I - I
know what it is to lose your only child.” The habitual shadow in
Lanatus’ eyes was stark, rekindled by this reminder of his own
grief.
“Of course. I had forgotten, forgive me.” Thranduil drew a
deep breath, brushing away a stray tear. He had all but forgotten
the pedantic archivist’s personal sorrow. His young son had
drowned, long, long ago, in one of the forest rivers. “Will
you help me, Lanatus? There is much that needs to be done.”
Lanatus bowed. “Of course, my Lord. And I also spoke with
the - with the dwarf. He asked if you would be travelling to
Minas Tirith.”
“ ‘Gimli’, Lanatus. His name is Gimli. And - yes, I suppose
one day I will be travelling to Minas Tirith. But not now.
Not yet.”
Lanatus waited for further instructions, but at Thranduil’s wave of
dismissal, he bowed again and left, leaving the King alone once
more.
Thranduil stood, and stared for a long time at a portrait of Legolas
that hung over the fireplace. It had been painted not long after
the battle of Five Armies, and the artist had captured Legolas’ distant
expression, as he dreamed of travelling across the length and breadth
of Middle Earth. Now he would never get his wish.
Silently, Thranduil turned and left the room. As the door closed,
the fire and candle light flickered softly, gently illuminating
Legolas’ picture.
The
End
Posted to Fanfiction.net Sept. 14,
2003 with no additions although it says to be continued. Complete as it
is.
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