Anywhere by Rosalyn Angel
Summary: "I would have followed him anywhere, to the ends of the world and back again; and I would have never let him go."
Categories: FPS, FPS > Haldir/Legolas, FPS > Legolas/Haldir Characters: Haldir of Lothlórien, Legolas
Type: None
Warning: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes Word count: 3069 Read: 2471 Published: April 13, 2009 Updated: April 13, 2009
Story Notes:
Author's Notes:... movieverse-ness. ^_^ Legolas POV-ness. ^_^ Set a while after RotK; I'm not quite sure what happens except the basic, so forgive small mistakes. This is, after all, for my enjoyment; and it's also written for a contest held by Minka Greenleaf, of which I am hoping to do fairly decent on. ^_^ I toyed with several ideas for this story until I rested on this one: they all had the basic same meaning. I hope you enjoy! Please drop an e-mail comment and review. ^_~

I understand the whole Mandos' Halls concept pretty much... but I'm gonna take leeway on that, okay? Playing with an afterlife is fun, kids! - and, I guess, this is my own little version of how an Elf might grieve.

1. Chapter 1 by Rosalyn Angel

Chapter 1 by Rosalyn Angel
I still see him. He appears exactly the same. I suppose that is expected of Elves; but to see him standing in front of me, silver hair streaming down his back like stars, never ceases to amaze me. Not only is he the same, but he is there in the first place.

He is dead.

Do you call me mad? Can you not understand? It is simple, really. He is gone, he fell, he was slain, he is no longer in this world. But yet here he lingers, by my side, making less of a sound than even my people. He glides as a ghost across the floor, legs moving in a mockery of walk; but I know he is not actually there. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me and has been all of these years. I understand that he is gone, that he cannot be really there. But that does not mean I will let him go. That does not mean I will accept that he perished by the axe of a dirty Orc; he is too strong for that. He could not have possibly fallen... but yet he did; and this I know, and this I mourn for.

I mourn when I see the transparent image of him by my bed at night. He never speaks or makes the slightest sound: his grey clothes do not even rustle. He stands by the royal-sized bed of satin covers and pillows of white, and watches over me in my sleep. He thinks me unaware; but I feel cold whenever he is near, so I pretend to sleep the open-eyed sleep of Elves. That is the only time I can meet his gaze. All other attempts, when he knows me to be awake and I glance at him, he turns his head to the side as if disinterested.

Why, I do not know. I wonder, is he ashamed of me? Is he saddened and frustrated that I refuse to let him be at peace? Does he hear my soft whimpers when I lie in my chambers, alone, grieving; and does he bade me then to let him go? I do not know, and probably never will. Not a word is exchanged between me and my spirit of him. This, I suppose, is his silent way of begging: "You know me to be here and I will not talk; you have to accept that I am gone and cannot."

His eyes, when I see them at night, pretending to be asleep, are dull. He looks tired; and all of his movements are slow like a soft breeze. He never wears an expression besides longing, wishing, hoping; and that is when he is unguarded. When I try to catch his eye in the halls of the palace of Minas Tirith (I am staying there for a few days, now), his countenance is blank. It despairs me: I miss his smug smirk and that glint in his silver gaze. He used to be so prideful, even a little arrogant, and that I relished in. Now I see his faint image, so dull and lifeless, slipping through the corridors and towering over my supposedly slumbering form, and I know him to be dead, fallen at Helm's Deep; and it hurts. It hurts to see him so, because it screams at me the harsh reality: he is dead. He is dead.

But I will not let go.

Aragorn is worried. I have seen his sidelong glances, a hint of concern in his straight mouth and knitted dark eyebrows. I have heard him murmuring my name to his wife, Arwen, and I have seen her slowly nod, her eyes closed in thought. Do they fear for me? Of course Aragorn sees through my little mask I always wear, a mask all Elves tend to wear. We have known each other for long years; but I am sorry, my friend Aragorn, you cannot help me this time. There is no arrow to be pulled out, nor a poison to be subdued or a gash to be treated. There is no herb from the East, West, South, or North that can cure me. So please stop whispering your worry to your Queen: I can hear you.

I like to think that I hid it well until this point. Now I am too eager to snap my head around whenever I see his ghost near; the desire to see him again is too strong. No doubt an Elf, the Prince of Mirkwood, staring at something that no one else can see would cause alarm. But I find that I no longer care what they think of me, my former boundaries to keep my royal reputation slowly vanishing. I do not walk with my head held high or with a bounce to my step; my eyes are downcast to the marble floor and my strides are dragging only a little. I only want them to know that it is useless to worry, that whispering among themselves will not help; because there is no cure. I am fading, disappearing a little each time he turns his long ghostly face away from me.

I love him.

And he is dead.

And I am dying.




I remember the texture of his hands. His fingers were long and pale, smooth as my silken pillows; neat, clean, short nails were at their tips. His palm was slightly callused where he gripped his bow so much; but it was a pleasing type, not rough. I remember twining my fingers through his, both of them held up between our smiling faces, my hand seeming so thin to his strong one. The callousness scratched my white skin, only barely: it was not displeasing. They were his hands, and hands I knew well; every crease of skin when he curled his fingers I knew. Every way he waved his hand to dismiss a subject; or the way he stroked his narrow chin in thought; or how he released his arrow, aim true and clear, into the Golden Woods for practice r11; I knew it all.

But now I find it hard to recall every little detail I used to so easily picture. Have so many years passed? So many days and nights I have lived on, without his nimble fingers curling around my hand, warm and comforting, reassuring me that he was there. Now he never touches me, doesn't even meet my eyes. I feel his cold presence by my bedside, my eyes open and appearing to be glazed over in sleep; but really they are staring, and mourning, grieving, despairing for the hand that is no longer within reach.

I remember his eyes and when we met. A silver color, like his glistening hair, with thick dark eyebrows, always arched, over them. They froze me when he first pinned me with his gaze on my trip to Lothlorien, exploring the world with my friend Aragorn; and he asked in his clear demanding voice: "What purpose brings you here to the Wood?" Aragorn answered something about my status; and the silver Elf smiled his odd mysterious smile, then guided us through the Wood with the golden canopy.

And still, even though he walked in the lead, all three of us on foot and making little noise, those dark silver eyes were being burned into my mind. My sight was not on the beautiful beech trees around me, their smooth grey columns reaching up high and topped with many brilliant leaves, but rather the back of the Marchwarden before me. Those stern eyes lingered in the back of my mind as I took in the sights of Lothlorien and spoke to the Lady Galadriel; and I think she knew, for she smiled beautifully and said no more.

I remember when he first grabbed my hand and I felt its texture. It was a friendly gesture, wishing for good luck as Aragorn and I departed from Lothlorien. I did not see him much then; but when I came back a second time, alone, I found myself drawn to his aura, walking his rounds with him and listening to his wonderful tales of old battles. I was still somewhat young and easily awed by the glory of victory, the shame and honor of defeat; and by the way he walked, spoke, smirked, and said my name as a roll off his tongue.

I remember when he first spun on his heel and wrapped his strong arms around me. I did not know what to say; so he sealed my mouth with his instead, saving me the embarrassment of stuttering. I was stiff, I know, for I had not felt another in such a way before: it was foreign, strange, and it made my mouth tingle. He leaned over me, my head angled up, his silver hair streaming along his and my shoulders. His hands, cupping my shoulder blades, kneaded softly and tried to release the tension he felt from me in his arms; this was a welcome and I almost melted, my legs wobbling. His grip tightened on me, keeping me on my feet: I felt weak and vulnerable to his touch; but that I did not mind, almost embraced.

I don't think there was a place in my front that was not in contact with his; I felt warm, no, hot r11; like the sun was mercilessly beating down upon us. True it was day, but the weather was pleasant; red and golden leaves fluttered all around us. I only heard them though, landing with their brethren on the forest floor; because my blue eyes were squeezed shut, eyelashes pressing against my cheek. Everything was a rush: my heart pounded, my blood surged. All sensation was focused on his touch and his lips against mine, softly sucking; and here I moaned, and I was lost in him forever.

All this I remember, and more. Remember, for that is all it is: a memory.




Again I am in my bed; and he stands over me, a shadow of light against the dim of the comfortable room. The pillows and sheets, white with golden vines weaving through, feel as though they are swallowing me up. There is but a thin streak of light from the stars peeking through the dark curtains, darkening one side of his face and lighting the other, not reflecting in his now-dull eyes. I stare, unmoving, always a master of deception, up at his face and hair like the moonlight also paled. He looks down upon me, not bothering to tilt his head, and his eyes sluggishly roam along my jaw, my cheeks, my brow; they flit briefly across my blue orbs, then travel down my neck and my green silk-covered chest. Here they stop where the covers begin, one of my hands lying across my stomach and the other curled next to my head, and they go back to my jaw and start over again.

How many nights this has occurred, I cannot count. I dare not move for fear of him turning away again; I lavish in what little attention I receive: at my bedside, feeling him striding after me down the halls or standing in the room I occupy, far away and far out of reach, silently always observing. This is the time, at night when I pretend to sleep, when he gets so close and unknowingly allows me to gaze upon him. Even in his deathly state, he still glows to me of his pride and radiant aura, lulling me in and promising pretty things.

Suddenly he moves and I try hard not to flinch; he has not moved by my bedside until morning, for all these years. His hand, that beautiful hand, slowly reaches out and grazes the long fingers along my neck. I feel naught but a brush of cool air, crawling down my skin and causing me to shiver. I think, perhaps, something flickered in my eyes at the contact, because his hand draws away and his head turns to the side slowly, averting his eyes elsewhere.

I miss his hands; I want to twine my fingers through his again. I want to feel that callousness and his body against mine, like I have so many times. I want to hear his voice speak my name like a song once more; I want to hear his glorious tales of old said with such vigor that I was put utterly in awe of the figure before me. I want him, back to me.

I sit up, the mattress compressing under my light weight and my legs tangling in the blankets. My golden hair, long and shining, is loose from its braids and falls in a wave around my face and shoulders, perfect and never out of place. He does not look back even as my sad demeanor gazes at his, trying to make eye contact; he instead stares at the dark carpet with the sort of detachment I often see in him now. I have not uttered a word to this ghost of my lover ever since Helm's Deep; I feared if I did, he would vanish without a trace: so sacred is the silence he carries. But now, when he clenches his hand at his side and narrows his eyes, I feel the bubble of words in my chest.

"Haldir!" I cry his name. My voice is hoarse, low and questioning, crudely rubbing against my throat. "Why do you flinch away from me? Haldir!"

For a moment there is nothing except a faint wind from the outside, seeping through the closed windows. He does not stir and nothing affects him; I wonder if he hears me at all. But then I notice his mouth move, curling around words and rolling his tongue. Yet no words or sound is produced: the air is dry and dead silent as his mouth dances on nothing. I expected, perhaps, to hear words in my head or even through my ears; but there is nothing, and my face falls r11; we are worlds apart.

But as I watched him talk with no sound, I begin to understand his silent words. They slowly form, piece by piece, in my head, building into an intricate pattern of pleas that all end up in three words: Let me go.

My breath is caught in my throat; his lips stop moving. My eyes are wide, dark, deep-set and disbelieving. After all of these years I have held on, hoping, needing to be next to him again and feel his hands; and he tells me to let him go. Can he not see? I cannot just let him go as if all of those nights together were nothing, as if all of those sweet whispers were nonsense: how many times has he murmured his love to me? And now the promises for happiness are replaced: Let me go.

"You do not know of what you ask!" I shout, creases in my brow as my distressed eyes eagerly try to meet his.

Again his mouth moves: Then come with me.

I stare at him; he all silver and myself gold, precious metals in the moonlight. Or let me go.

My breath wavers, quivering and coming out in short puffs; my bottom lip shakes and I toss the blankets carelessly down to the foot of the bed, intending to stand and face him; but finally, at long last, he turns his eyes to mine: they are burning now, no longer dull, lit from within with a fire so strong it is blinding. I am stunned, unable to tear my blue gaze away: I cannot think and have to concentrate merely on breathing, just keep myself going. My breath sounds harsh in the room, loud in my ears like a hurricane; and his eyes! Elbereth, his eyes; he is looking at me! He must see my longing, my grief and need for him now; for I know there is much reflected in my face, crouched on the bed like an unruly child. Come with me, he said. To where, I do not know; but his eyes, they look at me so, and again I feel weak and vulnerable in his presence like I used to. He must know I cannot let him go: I love him too much. But what of the other option? How could I possibly follow him to wherever he must go? He is everywhere, it seems to me: in my heart, my mind, before my eyes, all around me and closing in. I am trapped: my chest constricts. His presence is now overwhelming and I whimper, eyes locked with that silver inferno. I feel panicked: what must I do? How must I answer? After all of these years of downcast eyes and dragging feet, he finally meets my gaze and I am speechless.

"I do not... understand," I manage to whisper.

His mouth does not move, but his hand does: it reaches up again, toward me. I see every crease in the fold of his palm, the long pale fingers and neat nails. I want to touch it dearly, to feel it again; I want its warmth and its companionship and love. I want those fingers to trap mine and to squeeze and never let go: how I miss them...

Come with me.

My hand is drawn toward his like a moth to the flame, and once more our fingers intertwine like two halves, perfectly melding into each other. I look at them in wonder; they appear so seamless together and his hand was exactly how I remember; yes, the callousness was perfectly in place and the length was precisely right. This must be his hand and those must be his eyes r11; I miss him! I wish none of this ever happened: he would be alive next to me r11; and I would not have to let him go. I would have followed him anywhere, to the ends of the world and back again; and I would have never let him go.

And I cannot, so the choice was decided for me.

I love you.

It is then when I feel numb and blind; and I crumple to the soft bed enveloping me in its cool sheets. It is then when I realize, as I fade away, that my grief, my love, has finally killed me.

Farewell.


fin
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