My Mortal Brother

Legolas stood at the balcony door of his chamber in the Citadel of Minas Tirith.  He gazed out at the soft spring rain that drenched the quiet morning and he mused that the weather was certainly appropriate for the day.  Slowly he let his eyes move over the vast expanse of the Pelennor, its rich emerald green muted now to the color of moss beneath the misty rain.  Inexorably his keen gaze was drawn ever onward to where the rolling plain met Anduin the Great, the vast river that most days glistened like a ribbon of silver beneath the sun.  Today it was hidden by grey mists so that even the Elf’s eyes were barely able to discern it.

 Perhaps it was to be expected at a time such as this that memories should come in waves to press upon his heart and mind.  He had been unable to avoid them since arriving several days before.  They were not unwelcome memories though not all were particularly pleasant.  Looking out at the Pelennor now he thought of the first time he had seen those fertile fields as he fought his way from Anduin with Aragorn, Gimli, the sons of Elrond and the grey clad Rangers of the Dúnedain.  It had been a time of darkness and terror when the fields had been trampled to a mire by the feet of orcs, men, horses and other creatures larger and more fearsome.  Blood had stained the grass and bodies had littered it from the edge of the river to very eaves of the White City.  A pall of smoke from enemy fires had obscured Legolas’ first sight of that magnificent structure.  Yet out of that dark hour a king had been revealed, a man of honor and nobility, a man of courage and strength, his friend…his mortal brother. 

“My mortal brother,” Legolas sighed heavily and the sound was rife with pain.  He turned from his view of the Pelennor and stepped back into his room.  It was open and spacious with many windows, as he liked it.  It had been chosen and adorned especially for him, by Queen Arwen herself.  “Your home away from home,” she had called it.  And so it had been on many occasions, though there was little there now that gave any indication of who had occupied it.  But that was as he liked it too.  He was not a person who cared greatly about possessions though he had several that were as vital to him as breath:his bow for instance, and his lyre.  But in all things he preferred simplicity.  Arwen knew this and had furnished the room sparely but with uncompromising beauty and elegance.  The room was dominated by a large bed, long enough to fit Legolas’ tall, Elven frame comfortably, though he had not used the bed at all this visit.  He had been too restless, spending his nights silently walking the halls of The Citadel or sitting in the gardens seeking the companionship of the unresponsive stars.

 The bed was adorned by a white silk coverlet exquisitely embroidered with scenery from the woodland that had been his birth home.  The other furnishings were of equal taste and beauty, displaying the unmistakable grace and timelessness of the Elves.  There were sheer white curtains on the tall windows to filter light but not obstruct it, and the floor of white marble veined in green was unadorned.  A door to the right of the fireplace led to his private bath.  As always, large vases of fresh flowers were brought daily to his room, and the perfume of white lilies now permeated the air.

Legolas looked now at the bed, or rather at the garments that had been carefully laid out upon it.  He crossed the room with a light, graceful stride.  It was an unconscious thing, the way he moved, a mark not only of his Elven blood but of his training as a warrior.  He stood and stared thoughtfully at the clothing.  Like all else in the room the garments were simple yet elegant and beautiful.  And like the white lilies that stood, tall, and stately in crystal vases about the room, like the rain that fell outside his windows, they were entirely appropriate, not only for the occasion for which he would be wearing them later that day, but for his status as a member of royalty.  Yet even as he thought this last a fleeting smile made one corner of his fine mouth quiver.  After all, in days long past, even when occasion had dictated that he dress in clothes befitting a prince, he had never worn anything quite this exquisite.  He reached down and fingered the end of a silken sleeve.  Yes, faultlessly appropriate.  Nevertheless, a puzzled frown creased his fair brow as he tried, unsuccessfully, to discern why it was that he could not bring himself to put them on.

 He dropped the sleeve and turned away from the bed with yet another heavy sigh.  Fortunately, his presence would not be required for a few more hours.  Perhaps he was just tired.  He had not slept in days, and though such was not uncommon for him, rarely had he been as tired in heart and spirit as he was now.  He needed renewing and had time permitted he would have left the city and gone riding, but such was not the case.  Drawn by the steady cadence of rain falling upon stone he returned to the balcony and stepped outside.  This time he did not remain beneath the shelter of the eaves but moved out into the open.  Almost immediately the feel of the rain upon his skin seemed to ease his weariness.  It was clean and soft and rich with the scents of early spring; and for Legolas it was particularly stirring for he detected, beneath it all, the slight salt tang of the sea. 

He opened his arms and laying his head back he let the rain wash over him.  As it did memories also came and he embraced them, gladly.  He let his mind turn back over the long years to another time when the rain fell in soothing rhythm upon stone….

 Legolas sat beneath the stone out cropping that sheltered him and his companion from the persistent drizzle that had dogged them all day and now into the evening.  They sat opposite one another, hunched on either side of a small fire.  They had removed their cloaks and after shaking them out had laid them as close to the fire as they dared, hoping they would dry by morning.  Legolas stared into the flames pondering the question his friend had put to him.  The young prince had been quiet for many moments.

“Come now, little brother!” said the other man.  “It is a simple enough question and should not require so much thought.  Have you ever been in love?”

Legolas raised slightly narrowed eyes to his companion and frowned.  “Why do you call me that, Aragorn?  I do not mind the brother part, for so too do I think of you, but I am taller than you by a hand’s breadth and older than you by five hundred years.”

 The man smiled then with true mirth and the transformation that occurred in his often grim and rugged face was stunning, even for Legolas who had been privy to it on many occasions.  An almost Elven beauty came upon him.  The lines of care and weariness were miraculously smoothed away and his grey eyes sparkled with the light of many stars.

 “You are older in years perhaps, but in experience I believe that I am the superior.  And you must remember that for an Elf you are indeed young, while for a man I am considered quite old.”

 Legolas had to concede Aragorn the first point at least.  Although Legolas was a prince with great responsibility to his King and his people his duties seldom took him beyond the borders of his father’s realm.  When they did, more often than not, it was no farther than Imladris that he was allowed to wander.  What little he knew of the world outside had come to him in legends, poetry and song, and how much of it he had trusted to be true had been little.  But then Aragorn had come into his life confirming with firsthand knowledge many of those legends.  Legolas was a prince of a small woodland realm of silvan Elves that had seemingly little importance but Aragorn was the hidden King of a failing though still mighty kingdom of Men.  His journey to claiming that Kingship had taken him on many and diverse paths that had crisscrossed Middle-earth again and again.  Aragorn knew of places, people and traditions that Legolas had never dreamed existed.

 Legolas gave a slight shrug of his wide shoulders, indicating to Aragorn that the man had made a point. However, growing up with two older brothers had developed a strong competitive streak in Legolas and he was not about to concede without making a small point of his own.  “Perhaps by the measure of ordinary men you are considered old, Aragorn but for a man of Númenor you are barely come of age, yourself.”

 The man smiled softly.  “You speak truly, my friend; and while I will ever think of you as my brother and call you so, I will refrain in the future from using the term ‘little’.”

 “I will be grateful for it,” said Legolas, “since I am bombarded by the endearment often enough by my own brothers.  I weary of the title and wonder how old I must grow to be rid of it.”

 “However old you grow,” said Aragorn, “you will always be the younger brother.  That cannot change.  But younger or not, I sense a greatness in you that I believe you have only just begun to tap, a greatness that your older brothers cannot even guess at.”  For a moment Aragorn’s grey eyes pierced the prince with an alarming Elven keenness and then the man smiled knowingly as though he had found something within Legolas to prove the worth of his statement.

Then the man’s smiled broadened.  “But come, you have stalled long enough!  Answer my question!”

 Legolas frowned.  “No, I do not think I have ever been in love,” he answered, annoyance apparent in his clear, silver voice.  “I have not time for such trivialities as romance and love.”

Aragorn’s left brow lifted in a graceful arch, as it was wont to do when the man thought himself confronted by foolishness.  Then quite suddenly he broke into a fit of laughter.  And even though Legolas was quite sure the laughter was at his expense he could not help smiling at the rich, deep music of it. 

“Think!  Trivialities!” Aragorn exclaimed at length when he was able to control his laughter.  “If you only think you have not been in love, or even if you think you have, then I can assure you that you have not; for love leaves no room for such doubt.  And if you believe love to be a triviality then you are in for a rude awakening, my brother.”

 Legolas looked at his friend curiously.  “What do you know of love?” he questioned with a smirk.  “Do you claim superiority in this as well?  For certainly I have not heard you speak of such.”

 Aragorn lowered his gaze to the fire and was quiet for a moment.  Legolas studied his face wondering at the solemnity that had once again found place in it.  When the man spoke his voice was quiet and reverent.  “The love of a woman is a sacred thing, Legolas.  A man does not speak of it lightly, even to those he holds near to his heart.”

 If Aragorn was a man of unusual discernment, then his Elven friend was no less so than he.  “She does not return your love?” he asked gently.

 Aragorn sighed.  “In truth, I do not know.  I have not seen her in many years and I did not speak of my feelings for her when last we were together.  I believe then that she saw me merely as a youth of little consequence, but I have changed much in the intervening years and I hold hope that when next we meet she will see me differently, as a man worthy to gain the love of a woman of such high heritage and nobility.”

 “She must be a lady of great rank then, if a King with the pure blood of Númenor feels the need to prove himself,” observed Legolas.

 “A man’s bloodline does not insure nobility of character.  My own ancestry has proven so to me.  And heritage does not give you inherent right to the respect and love of others.  These are things that all men must earn,” replied Aragorn.

 Legolas nodded his agreement and with a little smile he said, “You are wise, Aragorn and very patient.”  Then he noted a slight sagging of the man’s broad shoulders, as though an unseen weight had descended upon them.

 “I am patient,” said Aragorn, “because I must be.  It is not only the lady that I must prove myself to but her father as well.  He will be the more difficult to convince, and rightly so.  There are many things I must achieve before he will grant me the hand of his daughter and even then, she herself must accept me.  If she does not, then I fear if I ever do claim the throne of Men, I will be without a queen and without heirs; for there is no one else for me.  But whether I am fit to claim the throne has yet to be seen.  I have much to prove to myself.”

 Legolas studied his friend for several moments.  The Elf had known few mortal Men in his life, mostly those with whom the people of the Silvan traded, the men of Dale and Lake Town.  But he knew none of them well.  Estel was the first Man that Legolas had ever befriended, and he had grown to love him and truly think of him as a brother.

 “It appears to me that love is a hard taskmaster,” observed Legolas.  “If so, I do not think I care to have anything to do with it.”

 Aragorn laughed suddenly dispelling the somber mood that had come upon him.  “Be careful what you say of love, my friend.  If you dare show it too much disdain love may take revenge upon you.”

 “In what way?” questioned Legolas.

 “By making you fall in love with the ugliest woman in Middle-earth.”

 “That is not possible.  There is no such thing as an ugly Elf.”

 Aragorn quirked his brow in amusement and said, “Who said she would be an Elf?”

 Legolas gave his friend a bemused look that made Aragorn laugh all the more.  “Better yet,” the man said, “Love would have you fall for the only woman who could resist your charm and your beauty.”

 “Ha!  There is no such woman!” countered Legolas with a wide grin.

 Aragorn’s smile softened for such a show of bravado was wholly out of character for his Elven friend and the man knew that it was done in jest.  Legolas would no doubt be amazed to know that he was the object of much female longing.  He did not see himself as anything out of the ordinary, as Elves went, though it was as far from the truth as light was from darkness.

 “Ah, Legolas,” said Aragorn.  “Love will find you someday and when it does I hope that I am there to witness it.”

 “Wherefore, so you can gloat over me?”

 “Nay, so that I may celebrate with you.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Legolas softly, his thoughts returning to the present.  “I am sorry that you were not able to witness that day.  But I, at least, was there to celebrate the day of your love fulfilled; and for that I will be forever grateful.  And if, someday, love does find me, you will be there if only in my heart.”

 His heart.  How it hurt, with a deep, abiding ache that spread from the center of his being to encompass all his physical and spiritual functions, and the only love he could fathom now was for the friend and brother who had gone.  “Estel,” he breathed, “Aragorn.  Elessar.” The child of hope, who had grown into a man of courage and great deeds, hadthen become the King of a new age. How he had honored Legolas with his friendship and brotherhood, his trust and affection.  It was, to the Elf, an unfathomable loss.

 Had his friend been sick, infirmed, or even injured unto death in the committing of some act of valor it might have been easier to accept.  But he had simply determined that it was time for him to take his leave of this life and then, as had been given to him, he had lay down, closed his eyes and willed his spirit to depart this world for others unknown. 

It had stopped raining.  ‘Not for long,’ thought Legolas eyeing a dark, sodden cloud bank to the west.  Aware then of his own drenched condition he thought it the better part of duty to retreat to his private bath and ready himself for the inevitable.

After a welcomed soaking in a tub of hot, scented water the Elf stood before a silvered mirror.  He reached out his long hand, wiped away the fog from its smooth surface and studied hisreflection.  His long black hair, glinting with hints of indigo, was combed but still damp and as yet unbound; soon though he would weave sections of it, along with the green and silver strands of ribbon that lay near at hand, into slender braids in a traditional pattern of mourning.  But for the moment he only stared at the face that looked back at him from the mirror.  It was the same face that had looked back at him from every mirror, or window, or calm surface of water that he had gazed into since the day he had achieved full manhood.  It was a face that had not changed in hundreds of year and would remain unchanged for eons into the future.  Such was his heritage, only one of the gifts that Eru had bequeathed His firstborn.  What changes would take place in that ageless countenance would be subtle, a matter of depth of feeling and acquired wisdom, the accumulation of sorrows borne and joys shared.  They would, no doubt, be unobserved by all but the most discerning and caring eye.

 In contrast, the changes that had occurred in Aragorn as he had aged had been quite notable, the silvering of his hair, and the deepening of the lines around his mouth and eyes and in his brow,  though these changes had not detracted from his handsome appearance, indeed they had seemed to enhance it.  And always, even in these later years, his friend had retained his natural vitality and strength, while increasing in wisdom and knowledge, in compassion and understanding.  Legolas had thought that if all Men aged with the grace that Aragorn displayed then such was something for Eru’s younger children to embrace and not fear.  Yet never had Legolas seen signs that his friend had grown weary of life…perhaps he had just refused to see them.

 Even on Legolas’ last visit to Minas Tirith this October past Aragorn had been as he ever was in the presence of his beloved friend, full of humor and hospitality.   The two of them with Gimli, and at times Eldarion, had spent many hours together. They had gone riding far beneath the hunter’s moon, and had camped once again, as in times before, under the bright stars.  They had talked of many things:of their lives, of their people and of their varied, intertwining histories and they had remembered the deeds of great courage performed by the least among them to bring about the fall of darkness.  They had remembered and honored old friends now gone.

 Aragorn had even challenged Legolas to a contest of the bow knowing beforehand, though he was no slouch with the weapon, that he was far outmatched by his Elven friend.  Nevertheless, the man had made a better showing than ever he had before causing Legolas to exclaim with pride, “You have improved much in your technique, my friend.  My instruction has served you well.”

 “Yea, you are a fine teacher, Legolas, though I have also spent much time with Eldarion at the archery field.  My son has developed a particular fondness for the weapon.”

 “If you continue to progress at such a rate, Aragorn, you may in time pull nearly even with me,” Legolas complimented.

 The man had smiled and clapped his hand on the Elf’s wide shoulder.  “My friend, I do not have enough time in this world to pull within a hundred leagues of your skill.”

 At the time Legolas had laughed believing that Aragorn spoke in the broadest sense of time, but now he understood how strait his meaning had been.

 “Ahh, Aragorn,” the Elf whispered putting a peculiarly Sindarin lilt to the man’s name.  “Why did I not see it?  Why did you not speak of it until these past few days?  And what is death to the Dúnedain, that unlike other men, it held no dread for you?”

 The mirror had fogged over again until Legolas could see naught but his eyes.  They were clear blue though they deepened to violet when he was angry or excited.  ‘A storm rising’ Aragorn had often called it whenever his eyes darkened in such a way. 

So he had called it that long ago November day in Lord Elrond’s sitting room….

“I know you are anxious to be underway, Legolas, but it would be foolish to start off until all of the scouts Elrond sent forth have returned.”

 The Elf stood beside one of the tall windows gazing out at a bright autumn afternoon.  His body was alert but relaxed and his face was deceptively calm.  At his friend’s quiet observation he turned and regarded him with one graceful brow arched inquisitively.  “Have I said that I was anxious to get underway?” he enquired.

 “Certainly not in words,” replied Aragorn, “But other things give you away.  I am not fooled by that studied calm of yours.  There is a storm rising in your eyes, my friend.  You are excited by this venture we are undertaking, however dangerous it may be or however unlikely it is to succeed.  And it is both, make no mistake.”

 “You are as a doomsayer,” said Legolas.  He strode to the chair opposite his friend and folded his long form into it.  “Is that your ancestral gift of foresight speaking?”

“Nay, that road is darkened to me.  I cannot see what lies ahead.”

“Then how do you know the fellowship will not succeed?”

“I do not.  I only said it was unlikely.  And in that I speak from long experience and the knowledge of the dark force we are pitted against.”  Aragorn studied his elven friend a moment and as he did a smile flickered in his eyes.  “You see this quest as a chance to finally tread the wide world beyond the borders of Mirkwood, do you not?”

 The elvish equivalent of a snort escaped Legolas.  “I see it as a chance to redeem myself and my people,” he replied.

“You are in need of redemption?”  The smile in the man’s eyes leaped anew.

“Do not play coy with me, Aragorn.  You know of what I speak.”

 He nodded.  “I do know.  But I know too that Gollum’s escape was due to no fault of yours.”

“Yet I was the one who headed the detail responsible for guarding that wretched creature,” Legolas said quietly.  “If not my fault, then whose?”

“Your compassion for Gollum speaks more to the kind of man you are than does his ability to escape your guard.  He is a slippery fellow, that one.  And how could any of us have known that he would have aid of the most foul kind?  There were forces at work there, Legolas that you could not have imagined.”

“I am no neophyte, Aragorn.  I have been fighting the dark forces since I came of age and have been in training to do so, since before that time.  In extending compassion to Gollum I committed a grave error, one that cost the lives of men who trusted me.”

“Did you truly think that orcs would dare to come beneath the very eaves of Thranduil’s fortress?” asked Aragorn.

Legolas looked long at his friend.  “Nay, I did not,” he said softly.

“Nor did I.  It was a bold move for such creatures, Legolas.  They were driven by fear to venture where they would not dare to go of their own accord.”

 “Nonetheless…”

“Legolas,” said Aragorn leaning forward to gaze steadily into his friend’s violet shaded eyes.  “You are no more to blame for this than you are to blame for the nightshade under which your people have been forced to dwell for nearly two thousand years.  You must let it go.”

“How, Aragorn?”

“By remembering the nature of war.  You are a warrior.  You are a prince and a captain to your people.  You will lose men in battle.  It happens.  Even the Elves are not immune.  You and I have been on many forays…for Thranduil, for Elrond, for Mithrandir.  We have scouted the enemy and hunted them and we have fought them side by side.”

“They were mere skirmishes,” said Legolas, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

“Did that make them any less a threat to our lives or to the missions we were on?  Nay, it did not.  And I tell you now, my friend…my brother, that in all of them, I knew that you ever had my back.  There is no one that I would trust more to be my rearward in any situation of peril, than you.”

“Not even the sons of Elrond?” questioned Legolas with a quirk of the brow.

Aragorn smiled.  “Not even they.”

“I am grateful for your confidence, Aragorn.  Such means as much to me as my father’s.  I will not let you down.”

“I know.”

 The two became quiet for many moments.  Finally, it was Legolas who broke the silence.  “Aragorn,” said he.

The man turned to his friend and the expression on the Elf’s face filled Aragorn’s grey eyes with amusement.  “Yes?”

“What things of wonder do you think we will see on our journey?”

Aragorn chuckled.  “Enough, I am sure, to satisfy the curiosity of a silvan princeling.”

“Princeling?” said Legolas with feigned indignation.  “Take care, Dúnadan!  Someday my knowledge and understanding of this world will come nigh to matching your own.  Then you will no longer be able to address me with such quaint diminutives.”

 Rather than making him laugh as Legolas had calculated, his verbal parry seemed to sober his friend suddenly.  “You speak more truth than you know,” he said quietly.  “In your countless years, Legolas, you will gain more wisdom and knowledge, witness more wonders and changes than I will gain or witness in all the years of life I have left to me.  You will outstrip me, my brother.  That is why you tolerate my small amusements at your expense.”

 His words caused the Elf deep reflection, for they had markedly illuminated the sharp differences between their two races.  Though Aragorn sat before him now, virile, strong and vital, a man of seemingly limitless promise, in truth his years were numbered.  All that he was to become, all that he had to achieve and accomplish must be done in the brief time allotted to him.  And yet, since befriending Aragorn, it was this very thing that Legolas had most come to admire about his mortal brethren.  They were as stars burning with an intensity that he felt no Elf could long endure; and in their consuming brilliance they lived and loved and achieved much. 

There were those of Legolas’ own people who thought that forming deep bonds of friendship with their mortal kin was unwise, for in the end what did it gain either but sorrow?  He could understand their view.  Yet he treasured his friendship with Aragorn as a gift worthy of many sorrows.

 “Do you fear death, Aragorn?”  the Elf asked.

 “That is an odd question,” his friend mused.

 “Nay, not so,” countered Legolas.  “Your words just now suggested it to my mind.  You spoke of your brevity of years.”

 “There are worse things than death, Legolas,” replied Aragorn.

 “This I know, despite my inexperience,” said the Elf, “but it does not answer the question.”

 Aragorn grew quiet then, considering it.  He had faced death many times.  He did not doubt that in the quest that lay ahead he would do so again.  Perhaps death would even take him.  But though he had no desire to embrace death he knew he spoke in all honesty when he finally said, “Nay, I do not fear death.”

 “Then why is it so many of your people do?”

 “Not all men fear it.”

 “But many,” replied the Elf.

 “I suppose they lack faith.  It is natural for men to fear what they do not understand.”

 “In what do they lack faith, my friend?  What is it they do not understand?”

“The promise of Eru that was given to our forbearers in the very beginning of our coming forth.  It is a time that is now veiled in forgetfulness.  But that promise came with those courageous enough to leave darkness behind and cross the Blue Mountains.”

 Now it was Legolas who leaned forward.  “What is the promise?”

“When our years are expended, our spirits are released and we have the gift to leave this world for others beyond it.”

 Legolas sat back, a thoughtful expression upon his clear Elven features, the color of his eyeslightening to their customary shade of blue.  He had heard of this thing before, the gift of Eru to Men, but in his experience it seemed to hold little substance for them; thus his questions to Aragorn.  He was curious now to know more about this gift.  Holding his friend’s gaze with the sincere intent of his own Legolas said, “Though death is not our part, as you have said, we too, experience it, whether through some calamity of war, or the grief of a heart broken.  But if our spirits depart our housings of flesh, we know whither they hie; to the place prepared for them within the boundaries of this world.  And there we await the time of our rebirth.  But where do the spirits of men go?  Where are these other worlds and how are they different than this?”

 “I know not,” Aragorn answered simply.  “But I have faith in the promise.

 “And what of the breaking of this world?  The Elves are bound to it until its end.  We know not what Eru plans for us here after.”

 “We are his Children, Legolas, Men and Elves.  Would he bring us forth only to see us end utterly?  I do not think so.  All fathers, whether they be Men, Elves, dwarves or hobbits want only what is good for their children.  How much more so than the Father of us all?”

 Legolas nodded.  “Then will Eru’s children be united some day?  Will the bonds that our kindreds forge with one another here be continued elsewhere, in some far time?”

 “That is my hope.”

The fog had cleared from the mirror and once again Legolas gazed at his countenance within it.  “Hope.  How well Elrond named you, my friend.  Through the long years of our friendship I, too, have gained hope through your example.  I will try to hold to hope in this most grievous of partings.”

 Legolas looked down at the ribbons that lay by.  He picked them up with one hand and then lowered them slowly into the palm of his other hand, letting them wind down into coils of bright silver and summer green, the colors of his Father’s realm.  He had worn such on many occasions plaited in patterns of celebration, of solemn ceremony and yes, of mourning.  He had mourned for the fallen amongst his people, he had mourned his mother who had passed into the West when he was but a youth, and he had mourned his eldest brother who had been taken by an orc arrow during the Battle of Mirkwood just days before the fall of Sauron.  He had mourned for his mortal friends, comrades in arms, kings, princes, and common people of the earth, valiant and true, and now this.  In that moment, his heart rebelled so deeply at the thought of mourning, yet again, that the millennia-old tradition of weaving ribbons into the hair seemed utterly ridiculous.  In a sudden unreasonable flare of anger he flung the ribbons across the room.

 Legolas leaned forward, bracing his hands on the sink below the mirror and glared at his own reflection.  ‘Why should one mourn for a life so well lived, full of honor and great deeds, wisdom and compassion, love and hope?’ he wondered.  Yet Legolas knew even as the thought came to him that mourning was a natural part of the healing.  The Valar knew he had been through the process many times.  Nevertheless, in that moment, a conviction took shape within him.  If Legolas must mourn the death of this, his mortal brother, than he would mourn him as he thought appropriate for one who was indeed a King among men…and Elves.  And it would not be with beribboned braids.

 With a look of grim determination, Legolas straightened to his full height.  He drew back his black hair and with the ease that came from long years of repetition he quickly twisted portions of it into warriors’ plaits.  Then he strode from the bath into his chamber.  He crossed the floor to a large wardrobe and flung the doors open.  It was empty except for the few pieces of clothing he had brought with him, hastily thrown into a travel bag, but these he ignored.  Lying on the floor of the wardrobe was what he sought, a neatly bundled package he had left there in October for reasons he had been unable to discern at the time, yet now he understood.  He took the bundle from the wardrobe and carried it to the bed where he untied the piece of fine Elven rope that secured the package.  The outer wrapping was a folded piece of cloth, also of Elven make.  At first glance it appeared grey in color but closer examination showed hints of blue, green and even brown.  For a moment Legolas ran his hand over the soft fabric, his mind gripped once again by memory, but this time he quickly shook it off.  He pulled back the layers of cloth and removed all the items inside one at a time.  He looked each one over carefully and then laid it aside until all the contents were lined up on the bed.  When he had finished, he sighed and turned his head to look at the beautiful garments that lay on the other side.  Each one had been quickly but expertly tailored and sewn for him by the Queen’s own seamstresses for he had not brought proper attire for such a solemn event.  Whether he liked it or no, it was time to ready himself.  No doubt Gimli would be calling for him within the hour.  He rose from the bed and got dressed.

When he had finished dressing Legolas stood before a full length mirror.  The last item of clothing he would don was draped over his arm.  He eyed his reflection critically and for some reason thought of his father and wondered what he would think of his appearance.  He smiled briefly.  It seemed that no matter how old he grew his father’s opinion of him would always be important.  Legolas felt that his father would indeed approve even though there was nothing of the mighty Thranduil in the mirror save perhaps his height and the breadth of his shoulders.  Legolas favored his mother, or so he had always been told, from his dramatic coloring (very different from Thranduil’s own) to the shape of his eyes and mouth and the tilt of his nose.  He had always secretly harbored the belief that it was this resemblance to his mother that had garnered his father’s special affection.  He did not understand that it was only part of the reason.

Satisfied with his appearance, Legolas took the cloak that lay over his arm and holding it on either side of its hood he swirled it up and over his head, the fine fabric rippling in the light so that it changed from silver grey to blue to green to brown and then back to grey before it settled upon his wide shoulders.  Only then could one see that it was the cloth that had wrapped the package Legolas had taken from the bottom of the wardrobe.  The Elf reached into the pocket of the tunic he wore and took out an exquisite broach in shape and color like a newly unfurled leaf of the Mellyrn tree.  He used this to secure the cloak at his throat.  The tunic was a deep forest green, simple but comely, the sleeves embroidered with vining ivy.  The shirt beneath was of soft sage green linen, his leggings the color of rich, tilled earth and his soft boots the same deep green of his tunic.  A finely tooled leather belt circled his narrow waist and held the sheath for his knife.  Leather vambraces covered his forearms.  It was, with the exception of his cloak, the uniform of the common silvan warrior of whom Legolas had been a captain.  It was the apparel he had worn on the greatest quest of the Third Age.  It was, he profoundly felt, the most noble and dignified way to honor the King of Men who had been one of his greatest friends and his brother in more than arms.  He knew that many would disapprove, though they would, no doubt, bear that disapproval in silence.  The only ones who mattered were the ones who would understand his tribute, Arwen, Eldarion and Gimli.  They would know the deep love from whence the tribute sprang.

The rain had stopped.  Legolas went once again to his balcony.  He stepped out and walked to the stone wall that encircled it.  Dark clouds still prevailed in the sky but in some places they had begun to part showing patches of deep blue.  A shaft of golden sunlight pierced the cloud cover just above the Anduin and glittered off of its faraway surface.  The sight of it both broke his heart and yet strangely uplifted it.  He squinted at the sunlight and imagined that it shined the way for the living spirit of his friend, whither it should go.  “Farewell, Aragorn,” whispered Legolas.  “You will forever live in my memory and in my heart.”

Then, having never heard of the debate of Finrod and Andreth, he said, “Whither you go may you find peace.  Await me there, my beloved brother.”

THE END

The ‘Debate of Finrod and Andreth’ or the ‘Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth’ can be found in “Morgoth’s Ring” Volume X of the “History of Middle-earth”  It makes for fascinating reading.  I highly recommend it.