Cup of Bitterness
Title: Cup of Bitterness
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Aragorn, Arwen Undomiel, Elrond, Elros, Gimli, Legolas
Summary: Mortals die. The Elves fade away. And yet, in these two deaths there is a difference between mortals and immortals. And across time, the same choices and understanding are made…between Elrond and Elros, and Legolas and Aragorn.
Note: Archiving one of my FFN fics here. Written in 2009. My first LotR fic ever, and I struggled with the formal writing style Tolkien employed.
-
And for all her wisdom and lineage she could not forbear to plead with him to stay yet for a while. She was not yet weary of her days, and thus she tasted the bitterness of the mortality that she had taken upon her.
-The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen
-
"Come to see me, brother?" The voice came now. Softer, weaker.
Elrond Half-Elven did not look up, but he finally did. Black hair gone almost completely white, Elros Tar-Minyatur gazed calmly back at his brother. His face had only begun to develop lines, and yet they both knew there were few years left in him.
Mortality. Elrond twisted the concept about in his head. Mortality. He knew few among the Edain of Númenor, and had little desire to. One day, they would be dead, and yet he would carry on, living, immortal.
But Elros had chosen otherwise, and even now, at his death bed, Elrond could only begin to wonder at the choice his brother had made- and was now paying for. The Númenorean lifespan was long. It had almost been five hundred years, and yet now, Elros was paying for his choice.
"You sent for me." Elrond said, sternly. Was Elros' memory slipping? Looking at the age that had set upon Elros, and yet the visage of the Eldar which they both bore- it seemed strange to see age on an face that showed Elven heritage. "I heard you have abdicated."
A laugh that was a whisper that Elrond barely picked up. "Yes." Elros said. "It is time for me."
Elrond did not like the sound of that.
"You will still live." He said. It was a statement, more than a question. They both knew differently.
"No."
"You still have more years left. More years of life." Elrond argued. What lay beyond death, he did not know- only that it was the final separation between them. Only the Eldar could return to the Halls of Mandos. Who knew where the Edain went?
A quiet laugh. "I am tired, toron." Elros said, meditatively. "Ilúvatar's gift calls me onwards. I do not wish to tarry." A pause, and a silence. Elrond found himself holding Elros' hand. It seemed weak in his grasp.
"Do not speak of that now." Elrond said, sternly. "You have more days yet. You are still hale."
A smile stretched Elros' pale lips. "Ah, toron, 'till now, you do not understand. You chose the life of the Eldar, and I chose the Edain. To me was given the grace to live a lifespan several times that of a normal Man. And to me also was given the grace to choose when to leave this life, and when to accept Ilúvatar's gift. And I shall say this to you, brother- I am wearied of this life, and unlike you, I shall never come to dwell in the Undying Lands."
Elrond could say nothing to this, so instead, he clutched Elros' hand fiercely, as Elros' eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he squeezed harder, thinking Elros already dead. He was proven wrong when Elros' eyes opened again- the clear grey of glass, rolling back to reveal the curtain of a distant shore, a distant ocean, promising and beckoning. A distant gateway into a void of open starlight. All these and more.
"Do you ever regret your choice?" Elrond asked. The question that had haunted him for so often.
A thin smile. "Never." Elros whispered. "I have lived a full life, and unlike the Eldar, I am now wearied, and ready to answer the call of Ilúvatar. There is nothing to fear from death, toron. It is my reward now. But you, brother. Do you regret your choice?"
"No." Elrond said. Perhaps, his mind whispered, after I that I have loved is dead, and it is mine to go on living.
He looked back at Elros, who gave him a slight nod. "I will not tell you not to weep," Elros said, "For not all tears are an evil. Namárië, toron! Verily, I go now unto my rest, and to claim Ilúvatar's gift with both hands."
It seemed as if it was no great change, but the next moment, Elros closed his eyes, and rested his hands across his chest. He took a deep breath inwards- and Elrond waited for the exhale. There was none. None, and there would be none again.
Empty- that was how he felt, as empty as the silent Elros who lay on the bed, in death supremely peaceful and majestic- the first King of Númenor in truth. Strange how death had restored what time had gradually stolen away, and had Elros stirred once more, Elrond would have believed he could still wield Aranrúth with his old strength.
He sighed, feeling terribly weary. It was not just Elros who had paid the price of his choice, for Elrond was paying it now too. The price of watching all else fade and slowly wither, and the sorrow of the Eldar.
He stood, and turned to leave this room, and Númenor behind him.
Aman was a land of healing, and perhaps time would heal that which had been taken. But Elrond knew he would never return to Númenor again, so long as he lived.
-
"I heard from Arwen." Legolas said, quietly, as he stood in the doorway of the room.
Aragorn nodded. "Eldarion is old enough to rule as King now." He said.
"Why?" Legolas asked, frustratedly. He came in, whisper-soft in his light boots, and shut the door behind him.
"Arwen put you up to this." Aragorn accused.
"Yes." Legolas admitted. "But my question still holds, Aragorn. Why?"
"You know I am mortal." Aragorn said, quietly. He did not look at Legolas, but at the red-gold sapling that grew outside the glass window. The sound of birdsong came through the open window, as well as a cold breeze. It was autumn, and the leaves were dying. "I feel the press of time against me, and soon, she shall be the victor. Sons of Númenor, my friend, can only stave her off so much. And then the time comes for us as well."
Once, Legolas remembered a time when Aragorn had been a young child, grave for his age, named Estel. He had grown into a serious young Man, and during the War of the Ring, his hair had already been streaked with grey, his demeanor grim. Now, age was another weight on the broad shoulders of his friend, age and responsibility, and it showed, in the way Aragorn carried himself, and in the white locks of hair that had once been black.
"You beat Gimli in the sparring session the other day." Legolas pressed. "You are not that old."
Aragorn ran his fingers along the cool window ledge, thinking. "Nay, mellon-nin." He said, softly. "You know Gimli was holding back on me. He strikes harder, and faster, but he does not wish to impress on me that my strength of old is beginning to fade."
"What of Arwen?" Legolas asked. Eyes flashed the cold of colorless winter ice.
"What of the Sea?" Aragorn countered.
"She calls still," Legolas said. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath, as if he could hear the cry of the gulls, and the lapping of waves against shores of pure sand. The promise, and the lure, and the call for him to go beyond, to a land of peace and healing- to lay down his burdens forever.
In that moment, the call of Aman resonated in the room, between them, and Aragorn felt more strongly than ever the call to his rest.
Legolas opened his eyes. They were still distant, with sea-longing, but in that moment, they returned, although not without effort. "Long have I resisted the sea-longing, for you, Gimli, Arwen, and all of these, Aragorn." He said, quietly. "Most have passed beyond the circles of this world- Éomer King, Faramir, and the hobbits. Only the four of us remain- with whom it began. No, she calls still, but I would that she be denied for a while longer."
"And what of after?" Aragorn pressed.
Legolas sighed. "After all is past, then shall Gimli and I sail for Undying Lands. For the sea calls, and he would not part with me. Perhaps his heart desires peace at last, although I dare not speak for him. How well shall an Elf know a Dwarf?"
"Better than was thought before the Quest." Aragorn replied, knowingly. "For once, a Dwarf in Eryn Lasgalen was brought to the dungeons and not treated so gently. And now, he and his folk are elvellon and treated with honor. How well shall you know him? Perhaps as well as you know me, mellon-nin."
He looked once more at the tree beyond the window. It was young, sturdy and strong, and he remembered that Legolas himself had planted that tree outside of his window. Yet even now, the leaves were falling, shedding. With the advent of the colder air, some of the birds had already gone, migrating south to warmer lands.
Aragorn remembered the warmer sands of Harad, and the dense jungles. The feel of a powerful mûmakil's muscles beneath him. Perhaps it would be good to be somewhere warmer. The cold was starting to set in, and he was no longer young enough to ignore it as he had in the Wild.
"Do Elladan and Elrohir know?"
"They have come, and we have spoken." Aragorn said. A slight smile was on his face, and Legolas swore he knew that Legolas was hoping that Aragorn's foster brothers might have had a better chance at turning him away from his decision.
"And?"
"It is my grace, to do with as I choose." He glanced at the set expression on Legolas' face. "You do not understand, mellon-nin. Let it be said that Aragorn, son of Arathorn has the dignity of Elros Tar-Minyatur, and let it be said that King Elessar has his own pride. For down the path you ask of me lies only a slow withering death, mellon-nin, and I would that I should not walk down it."
"Down that path lies life, Estel." Legolas replied. "And Hope still to come. Each of those moments you shall give up will never return, Estel. And you shall never live them."
"Then that is the fate I must accept. Death will come for me, mellon-nin. And death shall come when I am least ready, or when I have decayed to all but a shadow who I am, a Théoden King ministered to by a Wormtongue. Nay, Legolas- 'tis the fear of death that drove the fall of Númenor, and the fear of death that brought about the Black Númenoreans. Nay, that is somewhere I would not go, as heir of Isildur and Elendil, the Faithful. To us has been given the grace to go at our will, to give back the gift given to all of Númenor. Shall I not die at my own choosing, and nobly, rather then when Age and Death shall come for me unbidden and unknown?"
"Then what lies beyond this, but death and emptiness?" Legolas cried out, in frustration. "Years have passed, and each of you have slowly died in turn. And soon, even Gimli shall pass, and there remains nothing for me but my father in the West. Is this the fate you shall leave us all to?"
In that moment- Aragorn understood Legolas was not just speaking for Arwen, but of himself.
He stepped forward, gripping Legolas' forearm fiercely. "You have been ever a friend to me, mellon-nin, and verily, I will never forget the days of our time together. Now, I am wearied and I would sleep and receive the Gift of Men, that is mine to take. But I say this to you, Legolas Greenleaf- beyond the circles of this world, we will meet again."
"I am bound forever to Arda." Legolas replied. He did not step away, did not let go. "You, however- who knows what becomes of Men after they die?"
"I know not," Aragorn said. "I go to find out. And yet, my heart does not misgive me when I speak thus, mellon-nin. We will meet again, beyond the circles of this world." In that moment, they stood, fixed, two figures of white light that blazed, as if from some painting of a wise and glorious king of old, and an Elf-lord, still, reading a promise and a foresight they knew not and could only blindly trust in.
"Farewell, Estel." Legolas said, bowing his head.
"Farewell, Legolas, mellon-nin." Aragorn said. As he turned and walked out of the room, still proud, and still erect, Legolas watched. He could not tear his eyes away from the last sight of his friend, and he knew instinctively this would be their last meeting as the living while they both still drew breath.
-
Then going to the House of the Kings in the Silent Street, Aragorn laid him down on the long bed that had been prepared for him. There he said farewell to Eldarion, and gave into his hands the winged crown of Gondor and sceptre of Arnor; and then all left him save Arwen, and she stood alone by his bed. And for all her wisdom and lineage she could not forbear to plead with him to stay yet for a while. She was not yet weary of her days, and thus she tasted the bitterness of the mortality that she had taken upon her.
"Lady Undómiel," said Aragorn, "the hour is indeed hard, yet it was made even in that day when we met under the white birches in the garden of Elrond, where none now walk. And on the hill of Cerin Amroth when we forsook both the Shadow and the Twilight this doom we accepted. Take counsel with yourself, beloved, and ask whether you would indeed have me wait until I wither and fall from my high seat unmanned and witless. Nay, lady, I am the last of the Númenoreans and the latest King of the Elder Days; and to me has been given not only a span thrice that of Men of Middle-earth, but also the grace to go at my will, and give back the gift. Now, therefore, I will sleep.
I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. the uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than a memory; or else to abide the Doom of Men."
"Nay, dear lord," she said, "that choice is long over. There is now no ship to bear me hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men, whether I will or nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Númenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive."
"So it seems," he said. "But let us not be overthrown at the final test, who of old renounced the Shadow and the Ring. In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! We are not bound forever in the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory, Farewell!"
"Estel, Estel!" she cried, and with that even as he took her hand and kissed it, he fell into sleep. Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him with wonder; for they saw the grace of his youth, and the valor of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were all blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world.
-
When Arwen emerged from the House, all who gathered read the answer in her eyes, cold and dark and quiet as a night without stars and empty.
Elladan and Elrohir were next to enter and to leave, to seek out their sister to give what comfort they may. For the Doom of Men was now hers, and Hope had departed.
And then was left Legolas, and Gimli, among others.
"Let me enter alone, Master Dwarf," Legolas said unto Gimli, "For I would see him last alone and to bear the sorrow of the Eldar in full."
And so Gimli, son of Gloin acquiesed and Legolas entered the House alone.
He knelt and wept before the still figure of one of those he had loved dearer than life. And then he stood, and in the peaceful quiet the silence, in the deep, healing green of the Elessar pinned onto Aragorn's chest, it was as if a veil was rent, and he saw beyond two things; white shores and far, green, country beneath a swift sunrise, and a endless void beyond, bathed in the promise of open starlight and perhaps something greater and more beautiful than any of them all.
And then, Legolas turned and left, the sea-longing weighing heavily on his heart. He did not look back, for now, the Undying Land commanded him, and there was yet a ship that awaited he and Gimli, among the last of the Elves to forever leave Arda to set sail into the West.
They would never set foot upon Middle Earth once more, and perhaps in Aman, he would find slow healing of his deeper wounds.
Then, he heard the bells chiming in the City of Minas Tirith, and perhaps all across the lands of Gondor, sounding, for the first time in centuries, the death of the King of Gondor and Arnor, and the passing of the last of the Númenoreans.
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Aragorn, Arwen Undomiel, Elrond, Elros, Gimli, Legolas
Summary: Mortals die. The Elves fade away. And yet, in these two deaths there is a difference between mortals and immortals. And across time, the same choices and understanding are made…between Elrond and Elros, and Legolas and Aragorn.
Note: Archiving one of my FFN fics here. Written in 2009. My first LotR fic ever, and I struggled with the formal writing style Tolkien employed.
-
And for all her wisdom and lineage she could not forbear to plead with him to stay yet for a while. She was not yet weary of her days, and thus she tasted the bitterness of the mortality that she had taken upon her.
-The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen
-
"Come to see me, brother?" The voice came now. Softer, weaker.
Elrond Half-Elven did not look up, but he finally did. Black hair gone almost completely white, Elros Tar-Minyatur gazed calmly back at his brother. His face had only begun to develop lines, and yet they both knew there were few years left in him.
Mortality. Elrond twisted the concept about in his head. Mortality. He knew few among the Edain of Númenor, and had little desire to. One day, they would be dead, and yet he would carry on, living, immortal.
But Elros had chosen otherwise, and even now, at his death bed, Elrond could only begin to wonder at the choice his brother had made- and was now paying for. The Númenorean lifespan was long. It had almost been five hundred years, and yet now, Elros was paying for his choice.
"You sent for me." Elrond said, sternly. Was Elros' memory slipping? Looking at the age that had set upon Elros, and yet the visage of the Eldar which they both bore- it seemed strange to see age on an face that showed Elven heritage. "I heard you have abdicated."
A laugh that was a whisper that Elrond barely picked up. "Yes." Elros said. "It is time for me."
Elrond did not like the sound of that.
"You will still live." He said. It was a statement, more than a question. They both knew differently.
"No."
"You still have more years left. More years of life." Elrond argued. What lay beyond death, he did not know- only that it was the final separation between them. Only the Eldar could return to the Halls of Mandos. Who knew where the Edain went?
A quiet laugh. "I am tired, toron." Elros said, meditatively. "Ilúvatar's gift calls me onwards. I do not wish to tarry." A pause, and a silence. Elrond found himself holding Elros' hand. It seemed weak in his grasp.
"Do not speak of that now." Elrond said, sternly. "You have more days yet. You are still hale."
A smile stretched Elros' pale lips. "Ah, toron, 'till now, you do not understand. You chose the life of the Eldar, and I chose the Edain. To me was given the grace to live a lifespan several times that of a normal Man. And to me also was given the grace to choose when to leave this life, and when to accept Ilúvatar's gift. And I shall say this to you, brother- I am wearied of this life, and unlike you, I shall never come to dwell in the Undying Lands."
Elrond could say nothing to this, so instead, he clutched Elros' hand fiercely, as Elros' eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he squeezed harder, thinking Elros already dead. He was proven wrong when Elros' eyes opened again- the clear grey of glass, rolling back to reveal the curtain of a distant shore, a distant ocean, promising and beckoning. A distant gateway into a void of open starlight. All these and more.
"Do you ever regret your choice?" Elrond asked. The question that had haunted him for so often.
A thin smile. "Never." Elros whispered. "I have lived a full life, and unlike the Eldar, I am now wearied, and ready to answer the call of Ilúvatar. There is nothing to fear from death, toron. It is my reward now. But you, brother. Do you regret your choice?"
"No." Elrond said. Perhaps, his mind whispered, after I that I have loved is dead, and it is mine to go on living.
He looked back at Elros, who gave him a slight nod. "I will not tell you not to weep," Elros said, "For not all tears are an evil. Namárië, toron! Verily, I go now unto my rest, and to claim Ilúvatar's gift with both hands."
It seemed as if it was no great change, but the next moment, Elros closed his eyes, and rested his hands across his chest. He took a deep breath inwards- and Elrond waited for the exhale. There was none. None, and there would be none again.
Empty- that was how he felt, as empty as the silent Elros who lay on the bed, in death supremely peaceful and majestic- the first King of Númenor in truth. Strange how death had restored what time had gradually stolen away, and had Elros stirred once more, Elrond would have believed he could still wield Aranrúth with his old strength.
He sighed, feeling terribly weary. It was not just Elros who had paid the price of his choice, for Elrond was paying it now too. The price of watching all else fade and slowly wither, and the sorrow of the Eldar.
He stood, and turned to leave this room, and Númenor behind him.
Aman was a land of healing, and perhaps time would heal that which had been taken. But Elrond knew he would never return to Númenor again, so long as he lived.
-
"I heard from Arwen." Legolas said, quietly, as he stood in the doorway of the room.
Aragorn nodded. "Eldarion is old enough to rule as King now." He said.
"Why?" Legolas asked, frustratedly. He came in, whisper-soft in his light boots, and shut the door behind him.
"Arwen put you up to this." Aragorn accused.
"Yes." Legolas admitted. "But my question still holds, Aragorn. Why?"
"You know I am mortal." Aragorn said, quietly. He did not look at Legolas, but at the red-gold sapling that grew outside the glass window. The sound of birdsong came through the open window, as well as a cold breeze. It was autumn, and the leaves were dying. "I feel the press of time against me, and soon, she shall be the victor. Sons of Númenor, my friend, can only stave her off so much. And then the time comes for us as well."
Once, Legolas remembered a time when Aragorn had been a young child, grave for his age, named Estel. He had grown into a serious young Man, and during the War of the Ring, his hair had already been streaked with grey, his demeanor grim. Now, age was another weight on the broad shoulders of his friend, age and responsibility, and it showed, in the way Aragorn carried himself, and in the white locks of hair that had once been black.
"You beat Gimli in the sparring session the other day." Legolas pressed. "You are not that old."
Aragorn ran his fingers along the cool window ledge, thinking. "Nay, mellon-nin." He said, softly. "You know Gimli was holding back on me. He strikes harder, and faster, but he does not wish to impress on me that my strength of old is beginning to fade."
"What of Arwen?" Legolas asked. Eyes flashed the cold of colorless winter ice.
"What of the Sea?" Aragorn countered.
"She calls still," Legolas said. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath, as if he could hear the cry of the gulls, and the lapping of waves against shores of pure sand. The promise, and the lure, and the call for him to go beyond, to a land of peace and healing- to lay down his burdens forever.
In that moment, the call of Aman resonated in the room, between them, and Aragorn felt more strongly than ever the call to his rest.
Legolas opened his eyes. They were still distant, with sea-longing, but in that moment, they returned, although not without effort. "Long have I resisted the sea-longing, for you, Gimli, Arwen, and all of these, Aragorn." He said, quietly. "Most have passed beyond the circles of this world- Éomer King, Faramir, and the hobbits. Only the four of us remain- with whom it began. No, she calls still, but I would that she be denied for a while longer."
"And what of after?" Aragorn pressed.
Legolas sighed. "After all is past, then shall Gimli and I sail for Undying Lands. For the sea calls, and he would not part with me. Perhaps his heart desires peace at last, although I dare not speak for him. How well shall an Elf know a Dwarf?"
"Better than was thought before the Quest." Aragorn replied, knowingly. "For once, a Dwarf in Eryn Lasgalen was brought to the dungeons and not treated so gently. And now, he and his folk are elvellon and treated with honor. How well shall you know him? Perhaps as well as you know me, mellon-nin."
He looked once more at the tree beyond the window. It was young, sturdy and strong, and he remembered that Legolas himself had planted that tree outside of his window. Yet even now, the leaves were falling, shedding. With the advent of the colder air, some of the birds had already gone, migrating south to warmer lands.
Aragorn remembered the warmer sands of Harad, and the dense jungles. The feel of a powerful mûmakil's muscles beneath him. Perhaps it would be good to be somewhere warmer. The cold was starting to set in, and he was no longer young enough to ignore it as he had in the Wild.
"Do Elladan and Elrohir know?"
"They have come, and we have spoken." Aragorn said. A slight smile was on his face, and Legolas swore he knew that Legolas was hoping that Aragorn's foster brothers might have had a better chance at turning him away from his decision.
"And?"
"It is my grace, to do with as I choose." He glanced at the set expression on Legolas' face. "You do not understand, mellon-nin. Let it be said that Aragorn, son of Arathorn has the dignity of Elros Tar-Minyatur, and let it be said that King Elessar has his own pride. For down the path you ask of me lies only a slow withering death, mellon-nin, and I would that I should not walk down it."
"Down that path lies life, Estel." Legolas replied. "And Hope still to come. Each of those moments you shall give up will never return, Estel. And you shall never live them."
"Then that is the fate I must accept. Death will come for me, mellon-nin. And death shall come when I am least ready, or when I have decayed to all but a shadow who I am, a Théoden King ministered to by a Wormtongue. Nay, Legolas- 'tis the fear of death that drove the fall of Númenor, and the fear of death that brought about the Black Númenoreans. Nay, that is somewhere I would not go, as heir of Isildur and Elendil, the Faithful. To us has been given the grace to go at our will, to give back the gift given to all of Númenor. Shall I not die at my own choosing, and nobly, rather then when Age and Death shall come for me unbidden and unknown?"
"Then what lies beyond this, but death and emptiness?" Legolas cried out, in frustration. "Years have passed, and each of you have slowly died in turn. And soon, even Gimli shall pass, and there remains nothing for me but my father in the West. Is this the fate you shall leave us all to?"
In that moment- Aragorn understood Legolas was not just speaking for Arwen, but of himself.
He stepped forward, gripping Legolas' forearm fiercely. "You have been ever a friend to me, mellon-nin, and verily, I will never forget the days of our time together. Now, I am wearied and I would sleep and receive the Gift of Men, that is mine to take. But I say this to you, Legolas Greenleaf- beyond the circles of this world, we will meet again."
"I am bound forever to Arda." Legolas replied. He did not step away, did not let go. "You, however- who knows what becomes of Men after they die?"
"I know not," Aragorn said. "I go to find out. And yet, my heart does not misgive me when I speak thus, mellon-nin. We will meet again, beyond the circles of this world." In that moment, they stood, fixed, two figures of white light that blazed, as if from some painting of a wise and glorious king of old, and an Elf-lord, still, reading a promise and a foresight they knew not and could only blindly trust in.
"Farewell, Estel." Legolas said, bowing his head.
"Farewell, Legolas, mellon-nin." Aragorn said. As he turned and walked out of the room, still proud, and still erect, Legolas watched. He could not tear his eyes away from the last sight of his friend, and he knew instinctively this would be their last meeting as the living while they both still drew breath.
-
Then going to the House of the Kings in the Silent Street, Aragorn laid him down on the long bed that had been prepared for him. There he said farewell to Eldarion, and gave into his hands the winged crown of Gondor and sceptre of Arnor; and then all left him save Arwen, and she stood alone by his bed. And for all her wisdom and lineage she could not forbear to plead with him to stay yet for a while. She was not yet weary of her days, and thus she tasted the bitterness of the mortality that she had taken upon her.
"Lady Undómiel," said Aragorn, "the hour is indeed hard, yet it was made even in that day when we met under the white birches in the garden of Elrond, where none now walk. And on the hill of Cerin Amroth when we forsook both the Shadow and the Twilight this doom we accepted. Take counsel with yourself, beloved, and ask whether you would indeed have me wait until I wither and fall from my high seat unmanned and witless. Nay, lady, I am the last of the Númenoreans and the latest King of the Elder Days; and to me has been given not only a span thrice that of Men of Middle-earth, but also the grace to go at my will, and give back the gift. Now, therefore, I will sleep.
I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. the uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than a memory; or else to abide the Doom of Men."
"Nay, dear lord," she said, "that choice is long over. There is now no ship to bear me hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men, whether I will or nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Númenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive."
"So it seems," he said. "But let us not be overthrown at the final test, who of old renounced the Shadow and the Ring. In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! We are not bound forever in the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory, Farewell!"
"Estel, Estel!" she cried, and with that even as he took her hand and kissed it, he fell into sleep. Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him with wonder; for they saw the grace of his youth, and the valor of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were all blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world.
-
When Arwen emerged from the House, all who gathered read the answer in her eyes, cold and dark and quiet as a night without stars and empty.
Elladan and Elrohir were next to enter and to leave, to seek out their sister to give what comfort they may. For the Doom of Men was now hers, and Hope had departed.
And then was left Legolas, and Gimli, among others.
"Let me enter alone, Master Dwarf," Legolas said unto Gimli, "For I would see him last alone and to bear the sorrow of the Eldar in full."
And so Gimli, son of Gloin acquiesed and Legolas entered the House alone.
He knelt and wept before the still figure of one of those he had loved dearer than life. And then he stood, and in the peaceful quiet the silence, in the deep, healing green of the Elessar pinned onto Aragorn's chest, it was as if a veil was rent, and he saw beyond two things; white shores and far, green, country beneath a swift sunrise, and a endless void beyond, bathed in the promise of open starlight and perhaps something greater and more beautiful than any of them all.
And then, Legolas turned and left, the sea-longing weighing heavily on his heart. He did not look back, for now, the Undying Land commanded him, and there was yet a ship that awaited he and Gimli, among the last of the Elves to forever leave Arda to set sail into the West.
They would never set foot upon Middle Earth once more, and perhaps in Aman, he would find slow healing of his deeper wounds.
Then, he heard the bells chiming in the City of Minas Tirith, and perhaps all across the lands of Gondor, sounding, for the first time in centuries, the death of the King of Gondor and Arnor, and the passing of the last of the Númenoreans.