#Flowers Bright & Fair {Gondor} | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

all-the-things-2020 · 4 months

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A Grey Ship Sails

Summary: After the death of Aragorn, King of Gondor, Legolas and Gimli plan to sail away into the West. But someone tempts Legolas to stay behind in Middle-Earth.

Word count: 7000+

Notes: The Appendices to The Lord of the Rings give quite a bit of information about what happened to Aragorn, Sam, Merry and Pippin after Frodo and the others sailed into the West. However, there is very little mention of Legolas and Gimli, other than that after Aragorn’s death, Legolas built a grey ship and sailed down the Anduin and across the Sea, and that some say Gimli went with him. Here is my own idea of what might lay behind those brief words …

In the 120th year of the Fourth Age, the sun shone bright and fair over the wide Vale of Anduin. And yet, as he stood on a windblown hill amongst the springtime flowers and sweet herbs, Legolas Greenleaf, Lord of the Wood-elves of Ithilien, had sorrow in his heart. Sunlight glinted sharp and piercingly bright from the waters of the Great River, but it was not from longing for the sea that Legolas sighed. A great grief was coming upon him; he felt it growing like a cloud looming over the horizon.

He heard the rustle of a light foot stepping over the grass behind him. Although he was certain who it was, he did not turn, but kept his gaze on the west and the distant tower of Minas Tirith, shining like a white needle.

“A messenger has come, my lord,” spoke a low voice, beautiful and measured, like the cooing of a dove. Legolas turned to look at the Elf-maid, and his heart was troubled even more. She was tall and slender, as were all her race, fair of face and graceful as no mortal woman ever was. As always, his heart lifted at the sight of her, but it did not leap as it did when he caught the high, thin call of gulls flying past, or a breath of sea air on the breeze.

“I know,” he replied, walking toward her. “I have known for some time that the summons would come.” He sighed and shook his head. “It is always difficult to part from those we love; more difficult still when the one who departs is so great and wise, and those left behind must do the best they can without him.”

Galadhwen laid a hand on his arm, and he did not pull away. Even though he knew he should not encourage that which could not be, he was in sore need of comfort at the moment. “The King Elessar is the greatest Man to have walked the fields of Middle-earth for long years past,” she said. “Truly he was as the Kings of Men of old, the Lords of Numenor. But it is the Doom of Men that they should have only a short span of years allotted to them, and then must pass outside the circles of the world.”

“And it is our Doom to watch them go,” said Legolas. There was no bitterness in his words, only the deep sadness of the Elder Race.

Galadhwen bowed her head; she had no words to refute him. “He is dear to you,” she said gently, “and your grief at his parting will be deep. But there are others that you also care for ….”

Now Legolas did pull his arm away, and Galadhwen folded her hands together. It pained him that he must refuse her affection, and yet he knew that doing so would only spare her greater sorrow. For Galadhwen loved the fair woods of Ithilien above all else, and she was of the Wood-elves, not of the Grey-elves as he himself was. The Sea-longing would never awaken in her breast, and she would never wish to leave the shores of Middle-earth. Long ago, Legolas had heard the call of the Sea, and all these many years, it had quietly sung in his heart until now it threatened to drown out everything else, even the springtime songs of the birds and the music of the rippling waters that brought forth the sweet herbs and flowers in the garden that was Ithilien.

They walked in silence to the bottom of the hill, where Galadhwen bowed to him and left him to speak to the King’s messenger. Legolas found he listened with only half an ear to the man’s words. For he already knew the tidings which were brought to him, and instead he watched Galadhwen slip into the woods, slim and graceful as a deer, and just as at home amongst the wild trees.

The next day, Legolas crossed the Anduin, leaving quietly in the early morning so that none were aware of his going. He found a company of Dwarves awaiting him on the further bank. They were dressed not for war, but for such work as dwarves love above all else. Chisels and hammers and other implements of stone and metal work they bore with them, save their leader, who carried a mighty battle axe. His hair and beard were shot through with much silver, and he was more stout than in earlier days, but still Gimli Gloin’s son was an impressive Dwarf lord.

“Well, Master Elf,” said Gimli as Legolas drew near. “The day we have dreaded for so long draws near.”

“That is does, my friend,” said the Elf. “I walk in sorrow, for soon I must bid farewell to one who is dear to me, and to one who is fairest of all those of my kind who remain on these shores.”

Gimli bowed his head. “Let us go, then,” he said gruffly after a moment’s silence. “There is work in Minas Tirith for skilled craftsmen, and bitter work for you and me.” He hoisted his axe to his shoulder and set off at the head of the line of Dwarves. Legolas fell into step beside his old friend. The other Dwarves took up a marching song, singing softly so as not to offend their Lord, but with no need to be grim themselves. Legolas envied them their merry hearts. For he and Gimli walked toward a funeral.

They reached the gates of Minas Tirith late in the day. As they passed through the wall, Gimli grinned with pride at the magnificent mithril gates, crafted by his own people, a gift to the King of Gondor. “No Elven-smith could have wrought finer,” he declared, passing a hand over the edge of a gate as he passed.

The rest of the Dwarves left them in the first circle of the city, to go to the quarter kept ever ready for the workmen of the Lord of the Glittering Caves, who often came to the great city in service to the King. Legolas and Gimli continued on, rising steadily up the slope of the hill until they reached the highest level of the city, where only the noblest guests were received. There they rested in the forechamber of the great hall while word was brought to the King that they had arrived.

A door opened, but it was not the King who entered. It was instead his son, Eldarion, a tall man, full grown and wiser than any in the realm save his father. The blood of both the Numenoreans and the Eldar ran in his veins, and though he had seen scores of years, still his hair was dark and his face unlined. “My father the King will see you shortly,” he said. “May I offer you refreshment while you wait?” He was well mannered and gracious, yet still Legolas sensed his grief. For all that Eldarion was a mighty Prince, esteemed higher than any in the land, he had always deferred to his father’s companions, those who had ridden with him in the great War of the Ring and had been counted among the Ringbearer’s Fellowship.

“They will not have time to take wine and cakes, for I am here.” King Elessar’s voice rang clear and strong through the hall as he entered, but there was weariness in his face. Though his face bore few lines, his hair was all silver now, and for one brief moment, Legolas saw the likeness of Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, in his friend’s face.

“We have come at your summons, Aragorn,” Legolas said. As ever, when they were amongst themselves, the Companions used the King’s given name, for they remembered fondly the days when they journeyed together, before Aragorn son of Arathorn had taken the name Elessar Telcontar. But not even Legolas, who was the King’s elder by thousands of years, would presume to call him “Strider”, as the Hobbits were wont to do before they had passed away, either over the Sea or into death. Only the simple and merry Halflings would dare to call the High King of Arnor and Gondor by such a name, but it had pleased the King very much to be reminded of his humble past, and to remember as well that not all of his subjects were impressed by high white towers, fleets of ships, mighty swords and glittering gems.

“Mae govannon, Legolas,” said the King. “And welcome also to you, Gimli.” He led them through the hall to a smaller chamber, in which a fire was lit and comfortable couches and chairs were drawn up before it. Eldarion excused himself and the three companions took their seats, choosing those chairs that best suited them. Aragorn sank into a curiously carved chair of dark wood, marked with gilding and cushioned with deep blue velvet. Legolas took a finely carved chair of pale mallorn wood, a gift to the King from the artisans of Lothlorien. Gimli chose a low couch, covered with a thick tapestry but not well cushioned. A table near at hand held a pitcher of wine, and a plate of small cakes. Aragorn poured out three goblets, all made of purest silver and set with precious stones. Handing them round, and offering the cakes, he appraised his friends.

“It is good to see you both again,” he said, taking a sip of wine. He smiled suddenly. “Do you remember how we three hunted orcs across the breadth of Rohan? Those were hard days, and yet in memory, I find them sweet.”

“Many cares are laid on a lord of Men,” said Legolas. “Or of Elves – or Dwarves.” Gimli grunted in assent. “It is natural that we long for past days, when we had fewer cares.” And yet it was not the past that Legolas longed for now.

“You are wrong, Legolas,” Gimli said. “We did have cares then, grave ones. Brave men died, and the fate of Middle-earth stood on a razor’s edge. Our current cares are as nothing.”

“And yet I weary of them,” said Aragorn with a sigh. “You know why I have called you here, my friends, last of the Fellowship remaining in Middle-earth.” He rose to stand by the fire, leaning a hand against the mantelpiece. Though he still stood tall and unbowed, he showed his age. “As Isildur’s heir, with the blood of Numenor flowing in my veins, I have been granted longer life than other men. And yet I am not immortal, as are my Elven kin. Thus far have I remained strong and hale, though my hair has turned to silver. Soon, though, I will begin to falter. I feel it in my bones, Gimli.” He returned to his chair, and Legolas saw that he lowered himself carefully, as an old man will. “The grace by which I have been granted long life also grants me the right to give back the gift when I wish, not when time and chance will take it from me. My son is more than ready to take the throne, and he will rule well. I would not have my people watch me wither and lose my strength and wits.”

“Have you yet spoken of this to the Queen?” Legolas said quietly. Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-elven, had chosen the mortal life of her husband rather than sailing across the Sundering Sea with her father. When Aragorn gave up his life, so too would Queen Arwen. The Evenstar of her people would finally set.

“I have not,” Aragorn admitted, “though I feel she already knows.”

As if summoned by his words, the Queen entered the room. She moved quietly, yet their full attention was drawn to her immediately. Unlike her husband, she showed no sign of age, though indeed she was older even than Legolas. In the first centuries of the Third Age had she been born, and yet it was clear that Arwen had not yet wearied of her days.

She took a seat beside her lord, and the four of them spoke of old times, until the fire burned down and they were summoned to dine. As the company left the dining hall, Arwen laid her hand on Legolas’ arm and drew him a little aside.

“I know why the King has asked you here,” she said, her voice wavering just the least bit. “And I know what you plan to do once he is gone, Legolas, Lord of Ithilien.”

“Indeed,” said Legolas, “it would be well nigh impossible to keep anything of import from one as wise as you, my Queen.”

She smiled then, and shook her head. “Not so wise as some who have left us,” she said with a sigh. “Yet perhaps the wisest who still remains. Not for long, though.” She lowered her head and Legolas sensed the sorrow in her heart. “I am not ready to leave this world,” she said. “And yet it is my fate to depart soon.” She raised her head, her eyes shining not with the starlight that lingers in the eyes of the Firstborn, but with bright tears. “I ask of you a favor, Legolas, my friend.”

“You have but to ask, Arwen,” he replied. “Ever will I serve you, and your King.”

“You mean to leave these shores,” Arwen said, a far off look in her eyes. Legolas recognized it, for he often felt the same. It was the look of one who heard the call of the Sea, and could not answer it. “Do not deny it.”

“I will not,” said Legolas. “Many long years have I resisted the call, and when the King departs, I will no longer have the strength of will to deny it.”

“Then if you will, take a message for me, to my father and mother, and my grandmother Galadriel,” the Queen said.

“Gladly,” he agreed. Such sorrow filled her beautiful face, that he took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to it. “To the ends of the earth would I go to run such an errand for you, Queen of Men and Elves.”

Arwen laid her hand against his face. “I thank you, Legolas, Thranduil’s son,” she said. “It may be that still I can persuade my lord to wait a little while, but when he has departed, I shall write my farewells to those that I love who no longer dwell within these shores, and these I will deliver to you with my own hand; and so you, who are in some way my kin, however distant, shall be the last of my people to see me walk the earth.”

“Then I will be fortunate indeed, Lady Evenstar, to see the last of the Eldar depart from Middle-earth,” he said.

The next day, King Elessar summoned his closest advisers and companions, and they gathered with great sorrow before the House of the Dead. When the King arrived, the great winged crown of the Numenoreans on his brow and the Queen Evenstar at his side, all there assembled bowed their heads, save for Legolas, who was of the Elder race and alone of all the King’s people could bear to look upon the light shining from the Elfstone’s face.

At the King’s signal, they followed him inside the House of the Dead, where a bier had been prepared, spread with cloth of gold and a silk cushion laid at the head. The King stood before this bier and called forward his son, who knelt before him. “This crown I give unto you, Eldarion Telcontar, my only son,” the King said. “For it is time for me to leave my people and go to the rest that all wise men seek.” He then took the crown from off his head and placed it on Eldarion’s brow, and it seemed to those in attendance that Eldarion grew in stature, even as he knelt before his father, and the light of kingship shone clear and steady in his eyes.

“With a heavy heart do I accept this gift from you, my father,” Eldarion said. “For no man can hope to live up to the legacy that you have wrought. Still, I am of your blood, and I will do my best to follow the path you have blazed.”

Then the King raised up his son and bowing to him, turned to lay himself upon the bier. He bade everyone leave, save only the Queen, and folded his arms upon his breast. As Legolas departed with the others, he looked back. Aragorn appeared as a man overcome with great weariness, and the Elf knew it was more than time for the King to go to his well earned rest.

They milled uncertainly outside the Houses of the Dead for a quarter of an hour, none sure what should be done. And then the Queen appeared at the door, her face pale but unstained with tears. She strode calmly to her son, and went to her knee before him. “The King is dead,” she said in a clear voice. “Long live the King.”

No one spoke for a long moment, and then Gimli, with a gruff cough cleared his throat and cried, “Long live the King Eldarion Telcontar!” Legolas took up the cry, as did many others. “Long live Eldarion Telcontar, High King of Arnor and Gondor!” Then the King raised up his mother, for he would not have her kneel before any man. With both great sorrow and great joy, the company left the House of the Dead to its solemn peace, and returned to that part of the city where dwelt the living, and word was spread that a new King sat upon the throne.

Before Legolas left the city, Arwen came to him. “I will depart soon,” she said. “Look for me in Ithilien before the Moon has reached his full.”

“Whither will you go?” he asked.

“To Cerin Amroth, where Aragorn and I plighted our troth so many years ago,” she replied. “Lothlorien fades now, but still it is the land of my mother’s people, and I was happy there. I will not lie in a cold tomb with the queens of Men, but amongst the trees and flowers beloved by our people.”

To this Legolas made no reply, and with a bow he left her.

On his way back to his realm in the woods of Ithilien, Legolas stopped in Osgiliath, where dwelt the Prince of Ithilien, grandson of Faramir and Eowyn. There he requested the use of the Prince’s men and their knowledge of shipbuilding, for now that Osgiliath was rebuilt, it had become a great inland port, with ships sailing upriver from the Sea, bearing all sorts of precious cargo and trade goods. The Prince was troubled by Legolas’ request, but as his father and grandfather before him, he held the Elf in esteem, and as an equal, for Legolas was also a prince, though he dwelt no longer in his father’s realm. And so the Prince assented, and Legolas returned to his people.

Galadhwen greeted him with concern, for word had come to the Elves of the passing of King Elessar, and all knew that their Lord would grieve for his friend. It pained Legolas to hear her words of sympathy, knowing that soon enough she would likely have words of anger for him.

The day after he returned, Legolas gathered the greater part of his people and said to them, “I have summoned you here to decide whom you will take as your Lord after me, for I will soon be leaving you.” There was great astonishment at these words, and Galadhwen fled in tears. Though he wished to follow her, Legolas continued. “Long have I heard the call of the Sea whispering in my heart,” he said. “And long have I resisted it, out of love and loyalty to the King Elessar, to help him restore the reunited kingdom. But now the King has gone, and given his realm into the hands of his son, who rules now in Minas Tirith, and it is time also that I should give these woods into the hands of another, and follow my doom. The Prince of Ithilien has granted me the use of his shipwrights, and I will build a ship as soon as may be, and sail down the Anduin and thence to the Sea.”

Then leaving them to choose as they would his successor, Legolas went in search of Galadhwen. He found her on the hill, gazing upon the Anduin, and her face was stern and cold. “I have looked on this river and its valley with joy,” she said, “but now I feel only hate, for it will bear you away from us.”

“I would stay if I could,” Legolas said, “but the Sea Longing is like an ache, that can be borne only so long before it must be relieved, or the sufferer go mad. I must follow my heart, and sail into the West.”

“Follow your heart, you say,” Galadhwen said bitterly. “I would that your heart led you somewhere closer than Elvenhome across the sea.”

“My heart is torn,” he confessed. “I would have wed you long ago, Galadhwen, if not for the knowledge that even love of you could not bind me to these shores. It is better to leave you thus, free to choose another if your heart so inclines, than to leave you alone but bound to one who has gone and will not return.”

“As bitter as it would be to know that you love me not at all, it is far worse to know that you do, and yet not enough to remain,” she said sadly.

Legolas took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I would ask you to go with me,” he said, “if it were not that I know you would refuse. Your love for Middle-earth is as strong as my longing for the Sea. Even for love of me, you would not leave the woods and waters of Ithilien.”

Galadhwen was silent then, and pondered his words. With tears in her eyes, she nodded and said, “You speak truly. For I am afraid to take to ship and sail across the Sea, and if you will not stay with me, then I must lose you. I cannot leave this place, which is my home.”

“You are of the Silvan folk,” he said, “who have ever dwelt within Middle-earth, in heart as well as body. And I am of the Sindar, who heeded the call to join the Valar, but stopped along the way only for love of their king. Yet still, we were willing to go, and the call has only slept, not faded away.”

“I will never wed,” Galadhwen declared, “nor shall I bear any child, if you leave these shores, my lord. I swear this by Elbereth, most beloved of the Valar, for I will be faithful to you, though we shall be parted until the world ends.”

He kissed her then, tenderly, and both shed tears at the fate of their love. For though there was much love between them, neither was willing to make such sacrifice as Luthien made for Beren, or Arwen for Aragorn.

Before a fortnight had passed, Arwen Undomiel came to the woods of Ithilien, under the waxing moon. Legolas met her beside a laughing stream, but there was no joy in her heart. Quietly, she gave to him a packet of thick parchment, her written farewells to those of her family who had passed into the West.

“Give these unto my father and mother, and my grandmother, if you are still determined to sail,” she said.

“I am, and I will,” he replied. “I will guard your words as if they were precious jewels, for as such will they be regarded by those for whom they are intended.”

Then Arwen laid her hand upon his arm. “Will she sail with you, Legolas?” she said.

“No,” he replied, though he could not say how Arwen had known. “Her heart dwells here in Middle-earth, and she will not leave these shores.”

Arwen smiled sadly and dropped her hand. “So many partings,” she said. “Namarie, Legolas.”

“Namarie, Arwen Undomiel,” he replied as she turned and walked into the shadows, and was lost to his sight.

“Who was that?” said Galadhwen, appearing at his side.

“It was the Queen Evenstar, Arwen Undomiel,” said Legolas. “She is gone to her long rest, and none will ever see her again.”

“Where does she go?” asked Galadhwen. “Will she not lie beside her husband in the tombs of Men in Minas Tirith?”

“No,” said Legolas. “She goes to Cerin Amroth in Lothlorien, to fade and die with the wood wherein her grandmother Galadriel dwelt. For she is of the past, and must leave this world.” He turned then to Galadhwen and took her hand. “So too are we of the past, for this is now the Age of Men. We Elvenfolk must pass over the Sea or else dwindle and fade, until we are only a dim memory in the hearts of Men.”

“Still would I stay among the trees,” she said. “I cannot face the terrors of the Sea.” She took her hand from his, and walked away, her silver dress shining in the moonlight.

Legolas had several tall trees of Ithilien felled, with which to build his ship. Some among his people were grieved to see such noble trees brought to an untimely death, but Legolas chose wisely, and took only those trees that had reached their prime and had few years of life left before them. Their fine silver wood was hewn by the Elves and woodsmen of Ithilien, and sent to Osgiliath, where the shipwrights and carpenters wrought a small but well balanced ship, such as could be handled at need by a single sailor.

In due time, the ship was finished, and Legolas was pleased. He gifted the shipwrights with such gold as he had gathered in his time as Lord of Ithilien, and it was not without worth, for much had come to him from Gimli and the dwarves of the Glittering Caves. To the Prince of Ithilien, he gave a necklace of gold and mithril, set with a magnificent crystal that gathered and reflected even the smallest ray of light. Then returning to the woods, he made ready to depart.

On the morn of his leave-taking, Galadhwen came to him and once more asked if he would change his mind, and remain in Ithilien. And once again, Legolas asked if she would sail with him, though both knew the other’s heart was unchanged.

“Will you come to the river and see me off?” he asked, reluctant to be parted from her when there was so little time left to them.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I will say my farewell here, under the trees, where I belong.”

And so they were parted, and Legolas took up his pack and walked to Osgiliath, where the ship lay at anchor, straining against the ropes, so eager was she to follow the Anduin down to the Sea. On the docks were gathered the shipwrights and carpenters, and all who had a hand in the building of the ship, as well as the Prince of Ithilien and others of his household. And standing squarely in the middle of the dock, before the gangplank, was Gimli, son of Gloin, with his finest mithril mail blazing in the sun.

“I am glad you have come to see me off, Gimli,” Legolas said, taking the Dwarf’s hand.

“See you off?” replied Gimli. “No, Master Elf, I am coming with you.” He grinned at the astonishment on Legolas’ face. “You did not think I would let you go off on such a mighty adventure without someone to look after you, did you? Besides, I grow old, and even the Glittering Caves lose their charm, when I remember something of much higher beauty.” His hand went to the heavy gold necklace that he always wore, wherein was set a clear crystal, large as a hen’s egg, and within the crystal were three strands of golden hair.

“Only the Firstborn are allowed to follow the Straight Path,” said Legolas. “It may be that you will not be permitted to leave the Globed World, and must be left to drown in the wide Sea.”

Gimli dismissed such words with a wave of his hand. “I have no fear, Legolas,” he said. “I would hazard any risk for the chance to see the Lady Galadriel again. And I would rather end my days in peril and adventure, even to drown in the wide, wide Sea, than to fall into dotage and tumble from my stone seat within the Caves.”

“Then I welcome you, my friend,” said Legolas. “And it is high time to depart, for the wind is from the north, and will speed us on our way.”

They stepped onto the ship, followed by three sailors of Osgiliath, who would teach them the ways of the Sea. Behind them, a larger ship also weighed anchor, for she would escort them until they were well out from shore, and then take back on board the three Men.

Down the Anduin the grey ship sailed, and as they passed the high hill Legolas saw, with his clear sight, Galadhwen standing tall and proud with her hair unbound in the breeze, her hand raised in farewell. He raised his own hand to her, and Gimli asked, “What is it?”

“It is the lady Galadhwen,” Legolas replied softly, and Gimli was wise enough to say no more. Legolas stood in the stern, until they had passed so far down river that even Elvish sight could no longer behold her. Then he turned to face the prow, and looked behind no more.

They sailed south until, as night drew near, Legolas heard the cries of seabirds, wheeling in the air above the ports of Gondor. The evening breeze rose soft and cool from the water and swept upstream, bringing the scent of salt and seaweed and fish, and faintest of all, a hint of unearthly flowers blooming beyond the ken of mortal Men. Then did his heart leap up with joy, and he knew he had chosen aright. He would regret nothing, for this was his destiny.

The ship lay at anchor that night among the fleet of Gondor, but Legolas refused to go ashore. “I will not set foot on land again,” he said, “until I reach the shores of Eldamar across the Sea.” Gimli and the sailors left the ship, and Legolas lay awake all the night, watching the stars wheel past and the moon make his journey across the sky. Just before the sun arose, Earendil sailed above the horizon, and the beauty of the light he bore pierced Legolas’ heart with wonder. Soon, he thought, he would be among those who had not only seen the light of the Silmarils, such as the one Earendil wore on his brow, but even the light of the Trees, which had long been lost to the world.

When Gimli and the others had returned aboard, they set sails and left the River behind. As the prow cut the first wave, Legolas felt his Sea Longing subside at last. Long the ships sailed, the sleek grey vessel ever in the lead, following the coast westward, but always standing far off from shore. The sailors imparted all their knowledge of navigation and steering, and other arts of the sea, which Legolas was eager to learn.

After many days, the land fell away behind them, and nothing lay ahead but open sea. Onward both ships sailed, until at evening Legolas bade them furl their sails and rest, for on the morrow they would part. They rode at anchor that night, and the sailors aboard the Elven ship toasted the fate of their companions, and many fine speeches were made. And in the bright morning, they were set down in a small boat, and went across to the other ship, where their fellows took them aboard. Then both ships set sails again and the wind from the east sent them westward.

Legolas held the tiller and steered the grey ship straight and true. Gimli, gripping his axe with one hand and Galadriel’s lock with the other, stood in the bow, peering ahead for a sign of land. The two ships sailed side by side, and as they mounted a great sighing wave, the grey ship shuddered, and Gimli fell against the wales. Legolas braced his feet and stayed upright, as the grey ship left the Globed World and moved onto the Straight Road. The mortal ship disappeared, sailing on across the curved sea.

“Behold!” Legolas cried as he spied, far in the distance, beyond the sudden mists, a tall white tower. “It is the harbor of Alqualonde. We have reached the Straight Way, and have left Middle-earth behind.”

Gimli rose to his feet and stood with his mouth agape. The wind bore them swiftly toward the shore, and soon they were met by the white swan-ships of the Teleri, who of all the Firstborn have always loved the Sea. With such an escort, they reached the harbor and safely docked.

Legolas sprang ashore, while Gimli came more cautiously behind. Many Elves were there to greet them, arrayed in various colors and adorned with lustrous gems. The throng parted as the two companions walked among them.

“Welcome to Elvenhome,” said a familiar voice, and Legolas saw that Elrond Half-elven stood among the crowd. Beside him was his wife, Celebrian, who had sailed into the West long ago, and with them was Galadriel.

“The Lady Galadriel!” Gimli cried, rushing forward as soon as he spied her. He went to his knee before her and gazed up with reverence. “Long have I dreamt of beholding your beauty again, my Lady, and of serving you in whatever manner you deem wise.”

Galadriel smiled. “Rise, Gimli son of Gloin, most devoted of Dwarves,” she said. “By some grace you have reached these shores, and so you must be deemed worthy of much honor. I would not have you kneel before me.”

Then Gimli rose, still clutching the pendant in his hand, and Legolas took the packet of letters from his pocket. He had not thought to find Arwen’s family so quickly, and yet he had carried her missives on his person rather than in his baggage.

“These I bring from one who loved you,” he said, handing the packet to Elrond, who took it gravely.

“Then my daughter is lost to me once again,” he said. “And my foster son as well. Your coming brings sorrow as well as joy, son of Thranduil.”

Legolas bowed his head, for he could not deny it. And yet the very air burned in his lungs, and the light was so piercingly clear that he could feel nothing but joy. He had loved Greenwood the Great, and the primeval forests of Fangorn, and the gentle forests of Ithilien, but nothing in Middle-earth could compare with the beauty and delight of Eldamar.

“There is another of your acquaintance who wishes to see you,” said Galadriel. “Come, he awaits you in my house.”

Then Legolas and Gimli willingly followed her, and they traveled without weariness until at the fading of the day, they reached a noble dwelling. In the garden, Legolas spied a figure wrapped in billowing white.

“Mithrandir!” he exclaimed, and the figure turned to greet him. It was indeed Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, as merry as always, with depths of wisdom in his eyes.

“Legolas,” said Mithrandir. “And Gimli. So at least some of our Fellowship are reunited, once again.” He gestured for them to join him on the alabaster benches that ringed a glittering fountain.

“What of Bilbo and Frodo?” Legolas asked, at the mention of the Fellowship. “And Sam, I hear, sailed as well. What of them?”

Mithrandir bowed his head. “Tomorrow, if you wish, I will take you to where they lie,” he said.

“They are dead, then,” said Gimli gruffly. “I had thought perhaps they were granted immortality for their labors.”

Galadriel shook her head. “Not even the Valar can take back the Gift of Iluvatar,” she said. “Only the Firstborn remain in the world for ages on end. The Halflings – and even your own kind, Gimli – share the fate of the Secondborn. Bilbo, Frodo and Sam were granted much longer life than they would have enjoyed had they remained across the Sea, but only so far did the power of the Valar extend. In the end, they went to their well deserved sleep, as do all mortals who walk the earth.”

These words troubled Legolas, for it came to his mind as if for the first time, that of all the Fellowship of the Ring, only he and Mithrandir would remain. And even as he joined Gimli and Gandalf in recounting the adventures they had shared, he pondered this thought in his heart.

On the following day, Gandalf led them to a small glade amongst a forest of trees that made the mallorns of Lothlorien seem the merest scrub. Set in the midst of the glade were three white stones, graven with the names of the valiant Hobbits who slept beneath them. A sprinkling of delicate flowers covered the mounds, and Legolas felt a great peace as he walked among the stones.

“Did he find rest?” he asked, his hand on Frodo’s gravestone.

“Yes, he did,” said Gandalf. “Rest and peace in plenty.” He sighed. “No hero of the First Age ever faced more grief and pain than Frodo did, and yet somehow he had the strength to come through it relatively unscathed. What his own nature could not heal, the Valar did. Until his final days, he was merry and light-hearted again, like the young carefree hobbit I used to know.”

They left the glade to its silence and went back into the city, where Legolas and Gimli had each been given a house to dwell in. Gimli’s was carved of warm golden stone, and well suited to a Dwarf, which he wondered at. Yet the Noldor had been fond of crafting and building, even as the Dwarves, and some of them did not follow Feanor across the sea to Middle-earth. Legolas dwelt in a small house surrounded by a lush garden, with many trees growing not only beside the walls, but within them as well.

This house lay on the outskirts of the city, near a hill that overlooked the shore. That evening, Legolas climbed the hill and sat upon a great shelf of stone, carved with curious figures long, long ago. He looked out to the Sea as the shadow of the land stretched out over it, to cover the waves in shadow.

“What are you thinking of?” said Mithrandir, appearing so suddenly that even Legolas did not hear him approach.

“Many things,” said Legolas, “but mostly of one I left behind.”

Mithrandir nodded sagely, and lit his pipe. The sweet, pungent scent of pipeweed filled the air. Legolas had never been fond of the habit, wondering why hobbits and men would wish to foul the air and their own lungs with such a reek. And yet now, the smell of pipe smoke drew him back in memory to the day Isengard fell, and Merry and Pippin were found lounging upon the ruins of the gatehouse.

“A lady, I presume,” Mithrandir said at last.

“Yes,” said Legolas. “Galadhwen is her name. She would not leave Ithilien.”

“And so you sailed without her,” the wizard said, blowing a smoke ring that formed itself into the perfect image of the sleek grey ship that had borne Legolas and Gimli across the Sea.

“I had to,” Legolas said. “I would not stay, and dwindle, watching the cities of Men grow greater and greater, forgetting their brothers who dwell amongst the trees. I do not presume to be among the wise, Gandalf, but I know this much: Elves, Dwarves, Ents, even the Halflings, will all be driven back, forgotten in all but the old tales that are told to children. One day, Men will scoff at he who speaks of our kind as having truly lived. And those who remain will hide in the wilderness, fearful and forgetful of the glory that was once theirs.” When he finished speaking, he felt a bit dazed, as if some one other than himself had spoken with his voice.

“And there is something else,” he went on. “I have thought much about what Galadriel said, of the Gift of Iluvatar. All my life I have wondered at that phrase, for why should it be called a Gift, when Men are made feeble and weak by age, and must leave those they love after a handful of years? Yet now I think I understand.”

“And why is that?” Gandalf prompted.

“Because Men, and Dwarves and Hobbits, and all mortal beings, are not bound to the Circles of the World,” Legolas said. “Even as they see their loved ones fall, they are consoled to think that, if all that is said is true, when they too depart the world, they will be reunited with those who have gone before. This is not true of the Firstborn, for we must endure until the world itself is unmade. Even those who fall in body do not leave Arda, but are gathered into the Halls of Mandos to await the end.” He sighed heavily. “Were I a mortal Man,” he said, “I would be able to believe that in due time, I should leave this world, and in that world beyond which Elvenkind cannot reach, I would find Galadhwen again. But I do not possess the Gift of Iluvatar, and so I must wait all the long ages of the world in hopes of seeing her yet again.”

Mithrandir nodded, puffing on his pipe, and said nothing for some while. And then he quietly said, “And yet, ships can still be built, and some remain who can sail the Straight Road, and who can tell what will come to pass in the long years that remain to the world?” He rose then, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and walked away.

Legolas remained on the hill, long after the sun had gone away. His heart was lighter than it had been, though still he sorrowed. When Earendil sailed into the sky, his light reflected in the gentle waves of the sea, Legolas rose and walked in hope beneath the stars.

#lord of the rings #lotr #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings fanfic #legolas greenleaf #legolas #gimli #gimli son of gloin #middle earth #tolkien #tolkien fanfiction

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supermacaroniandsqueezeblr · 1 year

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Faramir: “Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still.”

DAMN, Faramir’s got a way with words! Such charisma!

#lotr newsletter #the lord of the rings

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a-lonely-dunedain · 1 year

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heeeeeeey so I have mentioned in the past that I have like at least one other LOTRO OC with a shamelessly edgy backstory that I've never posted? well today's the day I post her!

anyway, this is my half-Black Númenórean half-Nurnhoth champion, Margim!

backstory under the cut as not to clog your dash lol

fair warning her backstory is shamelessly edgy in a way that only something written by a young teen can be lol. I've had this character for literal ages and just. forgot to post about her.

Margim was born in the slave-pits in Udun, despite her Númenórean heritage her birth parent wanted nothing to do with her, bc y'know, servants of Sauron are just Like That™. anyway she eventually ended up in the fighting rings of what would eventually be known as Talath-Urui, where slaves and prisoners of Mordor were frequently forced to fight for entertainment. Margim was sent there due to her impressive physical strength, and spent most of her years in comparative isolation where the only interaction she had was either with her captors or those they wanted her to kill. She never thought to try to escape though, as this captivity was all she had ever known, and the wasteland outside of it was all she thought the world outside consisted of. She had never heard anything of the lands outside of Mordor, save that they were filled with evil men somehow curler than those in the service of the Dark Lord. That was, until she actually met one of these so-called "hatful men of Gondor". There was an herbalist from Ithilen who had been captured and brought to Gorgoroth's fighting pits, and he was being kept in the cell next to Margim's. He was not a strong man by any means, seemingly he had only been brought to the pits as fodder for one of the stronger combatants, his presence in the ring would be more of a cruel joke than anything else; one Margim had seen many times before and never found particularly funny. He was also a rather strange man, where most prisoners would avoid speaking to Margim on account of her reputation as one of the most feared Champions of the Pits and her reluctance to speak, like, at all, the herbalist not only spoke to her but offered to help treat her wounds from her previous fight (what he could reach through the cell bars at least) Margim recoiled from him at first, confused at his offer and thinking it might be some kind of trick, after all this didn't line up with anything she had been told about the men of Gondor before. But as their admittedly rather one-sided conversation continued, she learned quite a few things about this man and his homeland she did not expect. most of it sounded fake to her, the ramblings of a man driven mad by despair and starvation most likely. I mean, blue skies? the "sun"? who would ever believe that there was a missive bright floating… orb… thingy… in the sky. the sky is dark, it always has been. she had never seen a flower before and struggled to visualize these strange colorful growing things he attempted to describe. still, she found herself fascinated by this madman, who she learned was named Celeair, and listened intently to all he had to say of the lands outside Mordor, though she did not have much to say in return besides looks of bewilderment. Even if she did think it to be nothing more than a story, it was a… nice story. and she wanted to hear more of it. Well as it turns out, she might not get the chance. Later on when Margim is brought out of her cell to face her next combatant, she finds standing before her on the fighting-bridge none other than Celeair. He somehow seems worse for wear than when she last saw him, if such a thing is even possible, and was not even given a weapon with which to defend himself from her. This was not meant to be a fight, this was an execution. She finds herself unable to approach him. this is not the first one-sided fight she had been expected to partake in, but this was the first time she doubted her ability to follow through with it. the audience of orcs and evil men loudly demanded blood as she considered her next move. If she refused to fight they would both be killed, yet she could not bring herself to raise her mace against the kind madman. Escape is impossible, there is nothing but barren rock and fire and foes beyond the walls of Thorzaf... and beyond that? there is no "beyond that", Celeair says there is but- there's no way any of that was true right? still, he spoke of it with such sincerity. He surely knew he was about to die, he did not have any reason to lie to her did he? but does a madman need a reason-

"BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!" Interrupts the shouted demands of her impatient audience. A stern calmness came over her face as she made a rather rash decision. It is blood they want? oh, she would give them blood. Before she even considered the repercussions of the act, she turned around and her mace fell on her handler, who was dead before his body crumpled to the ground. in one sweeping movement she snatched his blade as it fell and tossed it to her new friend(?) Celeair.

Their daring escape from the fighting pits and long hard journey from Mordor are a blur to Margim. She remembers she did not think Ithilen was a real place, but at Celeair's insistence that he could lead them there, she trekked on despite her injuries. For all she knew she was chasing nothing more than a faerie tale dreamed up by man more broken than she was. But somehow despite it all, they do eventually make it out of Mordor in one piece. And to her surprise, the sky is not dark.

Margim is not allowed to stay in Ithilen however, and is lucky she was not killed on sight upon entering Ithilen. After all this woman who is visually indistinguishable from the feared Numenorian servants of Sauron (even wearing the armor of one of their commanders that she donned as part of their ruse to get through the black gate) showing up in Ithilen with a captured herbalist in tow would be seen as an immediate threat. luckily Celeair managed to convince his kinsmen to spare her, and while they don't trust her enough to allow her to stay, they allow her to venture north unharmed.

Anyway things are more shaky after that as we're getting out of backstory-territory and into regular story-territory. Margim eventually makes it north to Dunland and is accepted by the Stag-Clan as their champion, and has personal beef with Saurman for trying to start a war in the once peaceful land she now calls her home and trying to drag her very peaceful clan into it. Celeair eventually follows her trail north when he's well enough to travel after his ordeal in Mordor, and now they're traveling buddies :)

#lotro #lotro oc #Margim #thanks Meril for asking me about her and reminding me I needed to post about her lol

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glitteringaglarond · 1 year

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'Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.'

'Alas, not me, lord!' she said. 'Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City.' And she did him a courtesy and walked back to the house. But Faramir for a long while walked alone in the garden, and his glance now strayed rather to the house than to the eastward walls.

I love how from the start Faramir hopes to help her heal. And I love that that is what his eventual love for her springs from.

There is much to be said about the importance of pity in this story, Gandalf it a great example of that in and of himself, but it’s also a recurring theme throughout that the pity for Gollum from Bilbo, from Frodo, and eventually from Sam (briefly) is what allowed for the Quest to be achieved.

So for Faramir’s eventual love for Eowyn to spring from a place of pity and understanding and the hope for healing is extremely powerful in this particular story.

#lotr newsletter #my op #this is where my thoughts just make less and less sense because all I want to do is scREAM and hope you understand #newsletter march 20

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mercurygray · 2 years

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Weird Questions for Writers: 7, 9, 30, 32? Please and thank you!

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

The - the tactile experience of sitting in your room making faces at the wall trying to find exactly the right word for something, and then having someone read it and go "!!! THAT."

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know.

😂 I believe spaces hold on to old energy in certain ways, let's put it like that.

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

Oooh, that's a fun one. I don't usually remember my dreams, and when I do they're usually to do with anxiety, so...no, I can't say I've ever used any of them for writing.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

I love, unapologetically, Faramir's speech to Eowyn in the Houses of Healing, and I come back to it all the time when I'm thinking about the relationships I want to write and to cultivate:

Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.

He's just so goooooood.

#asked and answered #tortoisesshells

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middleearthtolkienfantasyart · 11 months

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"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful."

― Faramir, The Return of the King, "The Steward and the King"

"Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."

"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"

― Éowyn and the Witch-king, The Return of the King, "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields"

Éowyn was a member of the House of Eorl and the niece of King Théoden of Rohan. She was renowned for slaying the Witch-king of Angmar. She was the daughter of Théodwyn, Théoden's sister, and Éomund of Eastfold; her brother was Éomer. Following the end of the War of the Ring, she and Faramir were married, and she bore one son, Elboron.

She was also known as the Lady of Rohan, Lady of the Shield-arm, the White Lady of Rohan and Lady of Ithilien

Art by me

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moretreasurewithinarchive · 4 years

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Tag Drop; Éowyn of Rohan

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certifiedskywalker · 4 years

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Under the Stars - Legolas

While traversing Middle Earth, on a quest to deliver the One Ring to Mount Doom, you and the Fellowship try to move stealthily. Some are better at sneaking around than others. For instance, you seem to struggle in masking your feelings for a certain Elf. The rest of the Fellowship can so easily see the affection you hold for Legolas while you believe you’re being quite slick. Turns out, you’re the only one that was fooled.

AN: This is purely a selfish writing endeavor. I’ve been stressed and watching the LOTR and Hobbit movies to relax...I forgot how much I love Elves….Human!Reader X Legolas...

“I’m sick of smelling of grass and grime!” Merry announced. As he spoke, he dropped his cloak on a patch of nearby dirt beside the fire Boromir had begun to build. Silently, you hoped for Aragorn and Legolas to return with supper soon. Once the Hobbits’ stomachs were full, they would quiet.

Legolas had described them as ‘children’ to you one evening: once fed, quick to bed. It had been one of those first nights, back when you were too nervous, too giddy, to sleep. You would stay up with Legolas as he took watch. Despite what Gimli had told you about Elves, you found Legolas to be good company during those restless nights, a great comfort even. He would tell you stories from the centuries he had lived through and you would listen, hang off every word. When you finally did fall asleep, rare as it was those first days, it was because you felt safe with Legolas by your side.

If you dwelled too long on the memory, your face would warm with longing. How simple it had been before your heart began to complicate matters. Luckily, the Hobbits, hungry and noisy as ever, pulled you from your thoughts.

“We’re all sick,” Sam sighed as he took a seat next to haggard Frodo. “But we’ll be back at the Shire soon. Drinking and eating Rosie’s lovely supper roast.”

Boromir scoffed and shook his head at the Hobbit’s squabbling. “We have many more weeks of travel yet. Do not kid yourselves.”

Pippin frowned and plopped down beside a freshly disappointed Merry. This was the first time any of them had been away from the Shire, from their home; especially for so long. Due to that new homesickness, Boromir’s true words hit hard for the Hobbits. You gave them a sad smile before looking to Boromir. You bumped your shoulder against his to get his attention.

“Take it easy on them,” you said softly. “They’re not like us, not ready to leave home to save it at a moments notice.”

“They’re not fighters, you mean,” he countered as he struck the flint and steel. Sparks shot out from the metal and stone. After another strike, small flames began to burn. With a sigh, Boromir set his tools aside and sat back.

“You could change that, you know.” Boromir stole a glance at you, an eyebrow raised at your words. “You could teach them to fight, to defend. It would make things easier.”

“Easier?”

There was an edge to the man’s voice that caught you off guard. It was the same tone his father had used with you and Faramir when the pair of you tried to get Boromir to ditch his ‘steward prince’ duties as children. You cringed that familiar cruelty. Boromir was annoyed and you, already tired from the days travels, were not equipped to handle his irritability. You started to stand, brushing the dirt off of your trousers.

“Easier?!”

“It was just a suggestion, Boromir,” you explained, already starting to turn your back to the man. As you started to take steps into the forest, to find Aragorn and Legolas, Boromir let out a hearty laugh.

“It would be easier if you did not fawn over our dear Elf companion as well, but you seem to be falling just the same.”

You stopped dead in your tracks and felt your skin, every inch of it, warm with embarrassment. Slowly, you turned to meet Boromir’s bright eyes and knowing smirk. His expression resembled his younger self, the boy that affectionately tease you as you trained with Faramir. Growing up in Gondor with Boromir had toughened your hide to his ribbing; but this struck a chord. This was not the good-natured jokes you were used to.

Despite the truth in his teasing, Boromir’s tone was changed, twisted into something kissed by darkness.

“I know nothing of which you speak,” you replied through slightly gritted teeth. You had gone so long without anyone seemingly noting your admiration of Legolas that you were clambering for a defense.

“Oh deary me,” Gimli, groaned. You looked over at the Dwarf and saw his saddened eyes. Behind him, the Hobbits watched, wide-eyed, as you seemed to seethe.

“Everyone here sees it,” Boromir continued, “except for possibly the Elf and yourself. Blind to your own feelings and you talk of making things easier.”

Your heart leapt in your chest. For a moment, your thoughts are clouded by Legolas.

His blonde hair, flicking with the wind as you walked towards destiny, towards Mount Doom. Those first nights spent chatting about adventure. His eyes, soft as he explained to you the significance of his braids and recounted the sternness of his kingly father. For the past few days, when he wasn’t scouting ahead, he was walking by your side, letting his hand brush ever-so slightly. In those moments, you tried your hardest to keep calm, stay steady while Legolas seemed wholly unfazed by the incidental touches.

If anything it was the Elven prince who was blind, oblivious to how his mere presence was driving you mad with want. No, Boromir was wrong. You were not blind to your feelings, you were just ignoring them. Or, at least, trying to ignore them. After all, how could an Elf like Legolas, beautiful and immortal, want you?

“You are mistaken, Boromir,” you snap coldly. “I have no...inclination towards the Elf. Perhaps it is you, who is blind.”

Boromir shook his head and sighed. “You are grasping at thin air, Y/N. Even from the low spots at which they stand, the Hobbits can see your fonding eyes towards the archer.”

“Hey!” Merry stood in a flash, “we see lots of things.”

“So you agree with him?” You asked, turning to the four halflings perched beside the fire. Frodo was stunned in silence, as was Sam who had even stopped nibbling at his lembas. You imagined such human drama rarely reared its head in the Shire. Merry and Pippin, however, used to causing chaos, nodded.

“I mean, it’s the truth. Is it not?” Pippin asked, a hopeful half-smile on his lips. Despite his kind expression, you felt a bolt of hot anger in your heart.

“Not!”

“Aye, the man is right,” Gimli stood before you. Stout and strong, he looked up at you with true Dwarven candor. “Everybody sees how you look at ‘im. I don’t begin to understand it, the pointy ears and all, but-”

“Neither do I.”

The words left your lips edged with a saddening truth you were not expecting. You didn’t understand how you could fall for someone so hard, so swiftly. Let alone someone who was an Elf, an entire world away from yours. The thought brought stinging tears to your eyes. To hide them, you turned your back to the camp and started to walk into the surrounding forest.

As you left, you heard Frodo finally speak up.

“It feels that we have just begun and we are already crumbling.”

For a moment, you’re tempted to stay. Whatever feelings you had for Legolas, they were not worth tarnishing the Fellowship. But the thought of facing Boromir, the others, after they so plainly set your heart’s affection on display made you feel ill. So, you kept walking.

You walked until you found a clearing lined with grand, old trees. They towered but their branches did not dare to obscure the stars that shone down. Moonlight gleamed along the green blades of grass in the center of the clearing. The glow was soft, inviting, and you felt drawn to it.

When you moved to stand in the light, you found yourself looking up. Away from the fire light and pyres of Minas Tirith, the stars shone with abandon. Never before had you seen anything as breathtaking. Though, that wasn’t quite true.

You had seen Legolas in the heat of battle: graceful and deadly, slinging arrows with startling accuracy. From the first moment you saw him at the Council of Elrond, you knew there was a fire beneath his skin and you felt honored to see it burn in battle. You had seen his gentleness too as he studied particular flowers along the trail. As you walked with the Fellowship, you would steal sneaky glances at the Elf when he wasn’t at your side.

Apparently, your awe and stolen looks had not gone unnoticed. You winced as you thought back to the camp, to Boromir’s borderline cruelty. He had seemed different ever since you left Rivendell, ever since he learned of the Ring. Could a little band of gold, a promise of power, change a man so quickly?

You pushed the thought from your mind and tried to focus solely on the stars. In the silence, there was a brief peace. Worries slipped away, melted under the light of the Moon. The next day would come and bring fear with it. For this moment, you closed your eyes to better savor the quiet and its strange joy.

“Stars never seem to shine as brightly outside Mirkwood.”

Your eyes opened wide at the sound of Legolas’ voice. When you craned your neck and saw the Elf standing at the edge of the tree line, your breath caught. In the starlight, he looked all the more fair and handsome. His eyes, darker in the limited light, met yours and he dipped his head.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” he raised his open palms and approached you.

“No, you didn’t, I...I wasn’t expecting you.” You tore your attention away from him and looked back to the sky. It took all you had to keep your breathing steady as Legolas moved to stand at your side. From the corner of your eyes, you could see his strong shoulders, his chest, so close. Why must he stand so near?

“You were expecting someone else then?”

“I-I,” you looked back to him and saw that he was looking at the stars. Though your floundering reaction to his question did not go unnoticed. The slightest of smiles played on his pale lips. “No. No one.”

You moved your eyes back to the stars in the hopes of recovering some of your dignity. A sudden fear flooded your senses. Had he returned to camp with Aragorn? What had the others told him? You thought back to Boromir’s attitude and tensed. Before you could ask after anything, Legolas spoke up.

“Tonight, they remind me of home.”

You swallow hard before you dared to look his way. “What do you mean?”

“The stars,” he whispered, turning his gaze to yours. There was a gentleness in his features that made your chest warm. “And the company.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. “I fear I don’t understand.”

“You remind me home,” Legolas replied smoothly. You let out a forced laughed and frowned at him. Elves, by nature, were poetic but did Legolas did not see how his words could have a double meaning? He must see the pain on your face, the desperate hope his words gave you. Everyone else did, apparently.

“How could a human remind an Elf of his woodland home?”

“You are beautiful.” Legolas didn’t miss a beat with his reply.

“Legolas.” When his name fell from your lips, it was heavy and full of warning. Yet, the Elf seemed to care less as he turned his eyes back towards the sky. Silently, you cursed yourself for thinking he meant anything by the compliment.

“When I was younger, my father would bring me to the canopy to study the constellations. He would tell me the stories that accompanied them.”

Frown still firmly planted in your expression, you commented, “that doesn’t sound like the grim man you described to me.”

“He could be bitter, but beneath the asperity there was always love.”

His words stirred up for you an image of Boromir. While you heart still stung from his teasing, you could not forget the childhood you shared with him. The boy you once played with, trained with, alongside his younger brother, was still there. Buried beneath the hardened, stubborn man, but he was there all the same. There was hope for him yet.

“Love endures,” you added softly. The chilled night air gave your breath the form of a small cloud. Instinctively, you pulled at your cloak and fastened it a bit tighter around your shoulders.

“It endures all of Time and wild weather,” Legolas agreed. His eyes found yours once more and, with a look of concern, he leaned close to you. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m not, I…”

You trailed off, unable to think clearly with Legolas so near and looking at you like that. His eyes were kind, framed by the long, fine strands of his blond hair. With his dark brows furrowed together with worry, he looked older despite the Elven gift of eternal youth. How tempted you were to reach out and pull his lips to yours. Your fingers twitched and itched to do so, but you forced your hands to stay still. Bitterly, you imagined that those in the Fellowship would smirk at you if they could see how you were acting.

“Y/N, you sh-”

“Did they tell you?”

Legolas cocked his head to the side like a confused hound. “Tell me what?”

“The Fellowship did they...I am tired of being played for a fool,” you pressed. “I have been parading about as if I have masked my every feeling yet I could be read as plainly as any tome. I refuse to believe you, with your Elven sight, could not see what mere men and Hobbits have.”

At you plea, Legolas’ straightened his posture. While he leaned towards you no longer, his eyes remained soft and as watchful as they ever were. You took in his furrowed brows and slight frown before pressing a hand to your forehead with shame. In an attempt to calm yourself, you hung your heavy head and took a deep breath.

“I, I am sorry, Legolas. I think it’s time I had some rest.”

With your hand hiding a portion of your downturned face, you did not see him move closer to you until you saw the toes of his boots before your own. Still embarrassed because of your outburst, you did not dare to move. Only when you felt slender, warm fingers wrap around your wrist did you allow your hand to fall away. When you lifted your head, you were met with Legolas’ eyes focused solely on you.

“Do not apologize, you are right. They did not tell me; they do not need to. I have seen the feelings of which you speak and I am sorry that I have been so quiet.”

A breath was hard for you to find, but when you did you used it to ask the question balanced on the tip of your tongue. “What do you mean?”

“I mean to say there are many differences between your world and mine. I should have made my feelings more clear.”

Legolas’ grip on your wrist loosened slightly and you thought he was going to let go. Your stomach dropped with the dread of an affection gone unrequited. Then, just as you felt true doom, Legolas joined his hand with yours. Your gaze fell to watch how his fingers entangled with yours. Nervous, you looked back to Legolas and found there was a tender smile playing on his lips.

“At night I do not sleep but with these long evenings, with you slumbering so near, I have wished to. I have lived through many centuries and never once wanted to sleep. Never once did I see a beauty and longed to hold it dear until I met you.”

“Legolas,” you whispered, breathlessly, “I now truly feel like a fool.”

He lifted his free hand, the one not holding yours, to your face. Light as feathers, Legolas’ fingertips traced along your cheek. The touch sent a shiver down your spine that you did not even try to hide. There was no point now. Everything was clear for everyone to see. You did not want to hide from Legolas any longer.

“Perhaps we are both fools,” he said softly. This close to Legolas, even in the dim light of the stars, you could see the depth of blue in his eyes. The itch in your fingers returned as the smell of him flooded your senses: beech bark and pine. Before you could even think of holding back, your hand reached up and pulled his lips to yours.

Legolas was quick to respond. Both his hands moved to cup the sides of your face and he moved his lips eagerly along yours. Your hands gripped his armor, holding him close. Every feeling you had held in poured out into the kiss. Each stolen glance and longing stare finally coming to a head. Still clinging to him desperately, you pulled away from Legolas to catch your breath.

Slightly winded, you rested your forehead against his, sharing the air between you. Relieved of your worries, you felt a surge of bravery overtake you. Laughing lightly, you pulled away to meet Legolas’ gaze.

“I wonder if the Fellowship saw that coming.”

Legolas smiled at your joking, the widest smile you had seen from the Elf since meeting him. With his hands still holding your face, he brought you in for another kiss; less needy than the last but all the more passionate. Warmth surrounded you both but you hungered for more. Just as you were about to pull on Legolas’ armor, you heard someone clear their throat.

Immediately, you and Legolas pulled away from each other. You both looked over to see Aragorn, smiling smugly at the two of you as he walked out from the shadows created by the looming trees. A new sort of embarrassment rushed through you as the Ranger took in the sight of you and the Elf. You could only imagine what you both looked like with lips kiss swollen, chests heaving, and all wild eyed.

“I can not speak for the rest, but I saw this coming.”

You snuck a glance at Legolas and saw his pale cheeks had pinkened. Never before had you seem him flustered and you felt overwhelmed with pride that you had played a part in it. The starlight made the Elf’s features all the more pleasing. You wanted to kiss him again but, before you could reach for Legolas, Aragorn spoke up again.

“Come now, you’ve worried the party with your extended absence. And the Hobbit’s have supper ready.” As he turned to walk back, he added, “there will be time for that when our journey comes to an end.”

You and Legolas start after the promised king. Not before sharing a look that told the other that neither of you would be willing to wait that long. For so long you had both waited, danced in silence around the other. Now, there was no holding back.

#legolas #legolas x reader #legolas imagine #legolas imagines #legolas fanfiction #legolas x you #lotr #lotr imagine #lotr imagines #lotr fanfiction #the hobbit #legolas greenleaf #legolas greenleaf imagine #legolas greenleaf imagines #legolas greenleaf x reader #legolas greenleaf fanfiction

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anghraine · 3 years

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More HEARTCANON/SOULCANON/any canon about Gondor please! Or, related: do you think Faramir ever regretted recognizing Aragorn as king of Gondor? Did Aragorn ever have second thoughts about the guy he appointed steward?

Oh, interesting!

My default inclination is to say no, because of the mystical element of those initial recognitions. It’s not a rational evaluation of each other’s abilities/qualities so much as a sense of basic identity.

Faramir doesn’t recognize Aragorn as king because he thinks through it and decides Aragorn has the qualities of a good king, but because after the healing, he feels in his soul that Aragorn is the king in some essential way. Aragorn’s entire conduct towards Faramir inclines me to think that he sees Faramir as the rightful Steward, has a sense of Faramir’s being that he (Aragorn) respects, and—as far as Faramir is concerned—never considers acting in any way other than he did. I don’t think either would have regrets in the sense of wishing he had made different choices; they couldn’t have made different choices, ethically.

That said, there’s a fairly major issue that seems (IMO) like it would have to come up: the disparity between their visions for Gondor.

Faramir famously says in TTT, well before meeting Aragorn:

I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.

He would like to have a proper king again (“the Silver Crown return”). But the rest of the quote is about his vision for a then-theoretical renewed Gondor, and repeatedly returns to the point of avoiding domination and fear.

Meanwhile, what actually happens:

All men that had allied themselves with Sauron were slain or subjugated.(POME)

Gondor [was] soon to be of imperial power and prestige… I did not, naturally, go into details about the way in which Aragorn, as King of Gondor, would govern the realm. But it was made clear that there was much fighting and in the earlier years of A.’s reign expeditions against enemies in the East. (Letters)

And wherever King Elessar went with war King Éomer went with him; and beyond the Sea of Rhûn and on the far fields of the South the thunder of the cavalry of the Mark was heard, and the White Horse upon Green flew in many winds until Éomer grew old. (LOTR)

At some point Aragorn “granted mercy and peace” to Mordor’s traditional allies once he became their overlord, which is—well, JRRT’s description of Aragorn’s Gondor as “imperial” seems very accurate.

I’ve wondered for a long time about the reason for the gap between Faramir’s ideal and Aragorn’s reality, and I have some scattered ideas that aren’t really relevant, but in-story: how would Faramir respond? As Steward, he is Aragorn’s chief advisor and regent. Even if what happens looks less stark and more complicated from the inside, even if I squint, it’s hard to see Faramir being 100% rah-rah-rah onboard with all this.

Would he make actual trouble over it? Canonically, it’s hard to see anything very disruptive happening, but at the same time, I don’t see their relationship as always one of perfect harmony. If there ever is major trouble between Faramir and Aragorn, this is certainly where I see it cropping up. But whether that would extend so far as wishing they’d chosen different people …? I’m not sure. Even with all my reservations, it’s hard to see it going that far.

#anon replies #respuestas #legendarium blogging #legendarium fanwank #ondonórë blogging #/#//#///#////#/////#faramir #aragorn #anghraine's meta #aragorn critical #Anonymous #de las bóvedas #jewel of the seashore

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abeautifuldayfortea · 3 years

Text

A Perfect Spring Day

Summary: Slice of life of the Fellowship members enjoying the peace directly after the War of the Ring and following Aragorn’s coronation. Boromir lives in the Halls of Mandos. Requested by @warriorbookworm

Just the fellowship(boromir lives, ofc) having fun after the war? Have fun, add fluff, and maybe fellowship reunion? In gondor?

A/N: This was a fun gapfiller to write, Boromir lives far west of Arda. By the book canon, the Fellowship never meet up again together as eight members after reuniting in Gondor at the end of the War of the Ring. My personal headcanon is that Merry and Ioreth would be best friends (and that she is the one who inspires him to write the Herblore of the Shire book).

Words: 1555

The warm touch of spring came to Faramir as a blessing upon all blessings. The dark winter brewing in the east had at last relinquished its terror and there was little need now to turn toward the great mountain ranges of Mordor, if only for a little while. A time of peace and celebration. It came to him then that he had never known such a peace in his life, for he had been born in the unhappy years at the waning of Gondor’s power and in all his waking memory the grim forboding of Mordor’s black shadow had hung. Now the fair house of Minas Tirith set to his heart a bloom brighter than any flower of Ithilien and none as beautiful as the golden dawn that sat upon the brow of Éowyn in the morning’s waking hour. Upon the tempered gardens in the Houses of Healing they had walked together and now they had returned, hand in hand. Merry, clad in the green and white livery of Rohan was with them, sat upon the grass beside his lord and lady.

Between his hands, calloused and hardened from the labours of his journey, he absentmindedly turned a young leaf, still green and wet from the night’s frost and plucked prematurely from the fields beyond the walls of Minas Tirith where it grew with wild abandon. He looked with wonder as he beheld the fresh leaf of pipeweed or westmansweed or galena as it was known there and he was silent, as though the many sprinting thoughts and imaginings of his mind were turned elsewhere, placated and seeking some far-fetched place that was beyond Faramir.

The halflings were a hardy and curious folk, Faramir thought to himself. Merry had been loth to leave Theoden-king and it had only been the stout insistence that only kings and stewards had leave to enter Rath Dínen that stopped him from following him to his tomb. In the days thereafter that he spent dwelling in the pensive idleness within the Houses of Healing, he had become fast friends with Ioreth who treated with him as doting siblings are wont to do, and they delighted each other with the ever more exaggerated stories of home in a futile attempt to outdo the other. They found within each other a great kinship, for they were both light of heart and quick tongued and their merry speech filled the halls with the small but resplendent ripples of nostalgia.

“You see, young master Periain, these gardens are only well kempt. I tell you, when I spent my youth in Imloth Melui, the three of us, meaning my sisters and I of course, went tramping around inside the rose bushes. Inside, I tell you! I say, folk will talk, saying you haven’t seen a proper garden at all if word ever gets out of the way you talk about the gardens here! Plain, I call them.” she snorted.

“You must be much mistaken, Lady Ioreth! We halflings live among our gardens and I say that they are both well kempt and beautiful! Our gardens are our pride and joy, and I will say that no garden is fairer than that which has its roots dug deep in Shire earth. It is a shameful waste though, that the westmansweed crop is left without harvest, our folk cultivate it carefully and tend to it like a bairn. It grows everywhere here and to think they are tended only by the grace of the Valar. Perhaps it is the cold air that blows form Lochnarch. Farmers from the Southfarthing would surely weep with joy if they laid eyes on this!” He tutted.

And so Merry’s restful days after the war was lived mostly beside Ioreth in the Houses of Healing, learning from her the arts of herblore and healing when he could not seek for Sam and his cousins. But Ioreth was elsewhere that morning, receiving a fellow kinswoman from Imloth Melui he was told. Pippin was standing guard by the citadel or with Beregond and the Third Company, spinning yarns of his own, green with the enthusiasm of newfound confidence like a fledgling ready to fly the nest. Frodo and Sam were exhausted, spending their days and nights together always, finding comfort in each other from the waking terror that they escaped from in the calmness of sleep whilst Gandalf watched over them.

There was an undeniable change in Frodo, he noted, in the short moments in between the celebration and hearty tales exchanged between the Company. In the blink of an eye, he was himself, his merry cousin whom he had grown to love as a brother and yet sometimes he was a stranger to him, grave, a gaunt gaze, disconnected, living in a world apart from his reality. His burden had been heavy. In those miniscule moments, the distance between them yawned, and in this strange new territory, Merry could understand why but he could not help his cousin, for he did could never know the living nightmare that Frodo had traversed.

Gimli and Legolas had excused themselves earlier to explore the lower circles of the city, giving their assistance to the Men of Gondor in the long labour of repairing the White City. Far below, caught by the wind and carried to their ears, the small party on the lawn could hear the sound of Legolas singing in the strange Elvish tongue.

The rest of the fellowship saw little of Aragorn in the days after his coronation, for though he delayed the breaking of the Fellowship, he himself was caught up in matters of office and negotiations with many of the peoples of Middle Earth. Gandalf was found in unlikely places at unlikely times and came and went from the fair house in which they resided and that day his white robes and soft footfalls were brought to the Houses of Healing.

“Mithrandir!” “Hullo Gandalf!” Faramir rose and the Merry went with him, gladdened by the appearance of their old friend. They were greeted by his laughter, bright and ringing as though the weight of his labours was lifted and they saw the strange glint of ethereal youth in his eyes, eyes whose light beheld the raising of Arda, the birth of mountains and the delving of the great basin that would become the sea.

“A happy day looks upon the White City, my friends! I see you’re enjoying the music from down below, Faramir”. The man towering over the wizard before him looked away, bashful as a child.

“He is much talented, it is the voice I heard long ago in a dream, though I knew not then who it was. The tune is different and here it sings of celebration, yet I heard a song wearied and lonely upon a blistering night breeze”.

“It is lovely,” he hummed “and if it came to you in a vision then it is fairer still. Music has always had your heart, though I think yours has grown fond of much more than that now. Though, I see something else in you which you withhold from me”. His eyes searched and beheld Faramir’s face in a deep thoughtfulness.

A great sadness came washing over Faramir then, as though he had been swept straight into the path of dark waves. Faramir smiled, although his heart grieved. “Alas, for the parting of the one I loved best! I dream often of my brother, both in waking and in troubled sleep he oft appears to me and at times he speaks to me of fair halls and beautiful citadels that he claims I have yet to see. He laughs with a joy that I have not heard from him since we were both children. I saw him, at the coronation of Aragorn standing from afar, and he cheered for him, as he would when he returned from a battle hard won, but no company echoed him. He lives still, though he dwells where I cannot seek him.”

The wind shifted uneasily. Gandalf’s ancient eyes filled with pity and love for his young student.

“You are a wise man, Faramir, and indeed Boromir lives on and his spirit even now is fostered in the West, awaiting the Second Music, and when the time comes, you will be returned to his side and you too will see for yourself the grand halls he speaks of. It is but another pathway which we must all journey through and when you emerge, you will find the veil lifted and a beauty beyond any earthly treasure.”

“But come! Let us speak no more on these dark thoughts, we must enjoy the peace while it lasts, even as Boromir does so now in the Halls of Mandos. The breeze is fair and the sun is warm and,” he eyed Merry playfully, “I think I might just be willing to share some of my pipeweed”.

Leaning his back against the soft moss-covered wall, Gandalf took out his pipe and smoked in amiable silence alongside Merry as he basked under the midmorning sun, listening to the song of Legolas lulling him into a wakeful tranquillity. As the sun rose, Merry dozed and dreamed of home, the fresh westmansweed leaf began to wilt in his hand. Gandalf smiled, blissfully content with his work, a perfect spring day.

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