Title: As He Sails West
Author: Keithan
Disclaimers: Lord of the Rings and its characters belongs to their respective owners.
Rating: G
Series: One-shot
Warnings: None
Summary: He kept himself detached, trying to ignore the pain, trying to bury the grief. But he can only take so much, and this he learns - as he sails west.
Beta: Thanks goes to docmon for volunteering to do the beta-work for this. I owe you dear. Thank you! :)

As He Sails West

-o-o-o-

On the 1st day of March in the year 120 of the Fourth Age, more than a century after the Fall of Barad-dûr, King Elessar Telcontar had breathed his last and now slept peacefully in his eternal slumber, finally leaving behind the mortal circles of the world. It was said then that even in his final rest, his beauty and strength was seen as such, that the glory and splendor of the great kings of old were strongly reflected in his ageless face.

And with the passing of the Elfstone, Legolas Thranduilion sailed to the west, finally giving in to the Call of the Sea, and with him, it was said, came Gimli the Dwarf, a most beloved friend…

-o-o-o-

The sails billow softly and gracefully against the wind and yet his eyes are not upon them. He does not notice the gentle flap of the coarse linen or the swell of the main sail as the wind pushes against it, moving the ship slowly, smoothly, along the sea's surface. The great expanse of water before him grows wider, sparkling under the soft caress of sunlight, and the land in the distance, a dark contrast to the clear blue sky behind it, slowly shrinks on the horizon as it becomes farther out of reach.

His eyes are distant, deep pools of history carrying centuries of memories and countless of tales behind their blue depths. They now look upon the fading land, adding yet another imprint of memory, another tale soon to be told or perhaps kept close, to be left eternally unspoken.

He blinks, noticing and wondering, not for the first time, that his eyes are dry. He briefly remembers the time when he had wondered the same thing beneath the great arc that was the entrance to Rath Dinen, the Silent Street . He had wondered then as he looked upon the cold marble pillars, standing alone and facing the great, empty halls of Men long dead, of great Kings of old as they lay in slumber, never to be awoken with voice or touch.

His eyes were dry then and they remain so even when he had watched the closing of the doors to the silent and empty halls and even when he had glanced upon the glorious white towers of Minas Tirith and the flapping of its banners for the last time before turning his back and riding to the south, down to the mouths of Anduin. And he continues to wonder, can he not feel? Can he not weep?

His hand trembles and he grips the wooden railing in front of him to steady it, to hide its shaking, for what is an archer with an unsteady hand? What is an Elven prince with a wavering composure?

The wind picks up speed, blows his hair to his face, and it partly obscures his view of the land moving farther from him with every moment that his ship sails. He lets it, and now watches the land and the sea with a hindered view, and it fascinates him. The way his hair is a blur to his vision, even when the distant horizon is as clear as before and the way it frames the land and sea as if they are merely a part of a painting in the halls of Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth – it fascinates him.

And he smiles, faintly, wistfully, a slight curving of his lips, as though remembering a fond yet distant memory. But it is brief, and his smile is gone again, as if he realizes that memories, no matter how fond, are just snippets of the past that have no tangible use in the present.

He feels his hands tremble again, and he tightens his hold on the railing, tightens them until he can no longer feel them.

Yet, it is not only his hands that shake with an inexplicable tremble.

And he thinks, is it finally happening? Is he starting to feel? Is he starting to break through the numbness of his heart?

“Legolas?” a rough voice asks from behind and he feels his chest constrict, a choked sob wanting to escape.

Once again, he turns his eyes to the land far away, now a spot in the endless blue of the sea, hidden once in a while by the churning of the waves.

How long has he been standing there, a figure once belonging under the shelter of trees and the embrace of the woods of Arda, seemingly a phantom looking back at what it once held, and loved, and cherished? And how long will he stay at the rear of the ship? How long will he look out at what he is leaving behind rather than stand at its head, awaiting the sight of white shores and the fairest of lands?

He lifts a hand to tuck the wayward strands of his hair back, and he pauses, staring at it idly, seeing his fingers somewhat trembling. A crease in his brow, and he looks back up.

He notices, then, that the horizon is now a blur to his vision. He frowns slightly. Never has his Elven sight betrayed him thus.

“Legolas?” another call, another mention of his name, to which he, once again, does not turn to. “How long must you do this to yourself?”

How long?

He bites his lower lip, as he sees in the distance the blurred vision of the land in which he once dwelled, the land on which he once walked, and now, the land that he leaves behind.

He closes his eyes in bitter memory, and he realizes that his Elven sight never wavered when he feels a tear escape and travel down the smooth curve of his cheek. His body trembles slightly, like a leaf kissed softly by the wind, faintly shuddering and yielding to a much greater power.

“How did you do it, Gimli?” he asks softly. “How did you look upon him that night so calmly knowing what you know? Knowing that it would be that last you see of him…” he trails off, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to continue. Alive? Breathing? Moving? But then, he realizes that what he said is enough and he does not need to finish.

There was a hesitant pause, before he hears an answer. “It was his choice, my friend. It was hard to accept, I admit. It was hard to… to simply let go …”

“But you did,” he interrupts him, realizing that he must have sounded reproachful and accusing, but he ignores it and doesn't try to make amends.

The Dwarf's voice is patient and his words careful as he says, “He felt the time right. It was not for us to rob him of the gift of choice given to him.”

“The time right? Is that how it is? Just sleep… Nay, just die when the time is right?” and he feels his anger slowly rising.

“He was mortal, my friend, we are mo…”

“Well I am not !” he says suddenly, his head whipping around to finally face his friend. Gimli doesn't seem to be surprised. His friend's face bears a look of understanding, sympathizing as if knowing that he needs this – anything other than the cold indifference and the unaffected attitude that he has been showing. He looks down, ashamed of his outburst. He pushes away the rising anger and suddenly feels weaker without the strong emotion backing him up. The urge to just slump down is strong; he no longer has strength to keep himself up. He doesn't though, and stays standing, but it isn't with the same proud and dignified stance, not with the same princely air.

“Legolas, mellon nin. ” Such patience, such understanding.

He doesn't need pity. He doesn't want pity. “An eternity,” he says softly.

“You cannot go on like this.”

The concern is there, evident in his tone. The presence of a friend is unmistakable. After weeks of bottling up all his emotions inside, after years of knowing and fearing what is bound to happen, such presence and concern is his undoing. Gimli's stand with him, silently supporting and caring in his friendship, triggers the emotions hidden within him, locked inside his heart, unable – unwilling as he is to bring them forth from where he had pushed them to be forgotten… to be ignored.

And it is all that it takes to remind him that he is hurting.

He looks down at his pale hands, clutching desperately at the wooden railing. A choked sob manages to escape at last, a noticeable slump in the proud figure of the Elven prince, but the tears are yet to fall, except for the one that has already left a single track on his fair face. The rest, however, are gathered still in the deep pools of his eyes, blurring his vision of his shaking hands, of the churning waves, and of the distant land.

“It is too much, Gimli,” he says softly after a while, voice somewhat quavering. “It is still too raw, the pain still too great.” He closes his eyes tightly. “I can no longer look upon Arda as I once did…”

In a whisper, a broken whisper that breaks his friend's heart to hear, he continues, “Not when his memory lingers fresh in my heart, his voice still a close whisper to my ear and his touch still a warm presence on my cheek… Ai, Gimli!” He slams his open palms down forcefully on the wooden railing, his head bowing and shaking as if he doesn't want to accept what he is forced to accept. “ It hurts… ”

And finally, the tears fall, the first of many that would fall for the extinguished flame of Elessar, the Elfstone. The Man's passing tears at this immortal being's heart, seemingly wrenching it away from his chest, nursing his grief and feeding his pain until in the silence and solitude of the ship bearing him away from the Arda he once loved, the strength of the proud Greenleaf drains away from him, and his knees are no longer able to carry his weight. The heaviness of his heart finally succeeds in pulling him down.

“Legolas!”

“An eternity, my friend,” the voice catches in his throat, and he briefly considers his friend's confused stare in his tear-blurred vision. “Eternity,” he says again, “I have an eternity ahead of me.”

And there, as he sails to the West, with the billowing of the sails in the early morning breeze, down on his knees, Legolas Thranduilion finally weeps.

-end-
03.09.05 / 05.14.05

Note: Since I also do write slash, I am bound to be asked if this is slash or not, but it is not the matter of discussion here. I just handled the grief and pain of loss - whether be it loss of a friend or beloved is up to the reader. :)