LOTR/Hobbit ~Collection of Preferences~

Confessions ~ Legolas

"Firiel, have you seen my favorite quill?"

The world fades into view around you, the colors trickling in from the edges of your vision. A familiar face appears across the room, searching through a drawer. The sound of the paper rustling as he moves it calms you. You look around, wondering at the serene nature of this place. It too is well-known to you. The portraits hung above the mantel, the chair you are comfortably seated in, the pipe placed on that same spot on the desk for so many years it's worn an indent into the wood- this is home.

"Ah, nevermind, I probably left it in my bedroom."

The figure turns away before you can get a good look at him, but you already know who it is. His footsteps are steady, and this reassures you. He has not carried himself with an even pace for many months. You know you could get up, walk around the halls, see every notch in the doorframes recording your height, and your brother's, as you grew; the wallpaper in the den, hidden by a painting as of recent years, pricked by numerous stray darts; the spices hung from the rafters in the pantry. Still, you stay seated, let your gaze wander across the study. Your uncle's, you recall, though he hasn't used it for quite some time now. He went away, to finish his book. It was his old ring, wasn't it, that sent you and your brother out not too long after he left?

A wry smile appears on your face, and finally, you stand. Your hobbit feet make a quiet thud on the carpet and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the looking glass hung above the cluttered desk (your uncle, though usually very tidy, could never keep his papers neat). That smile on your lips is one you have not shown in some time. You tilt your head, surprised, though it is a faint feeling, as if your emotions are distant for the moment. Your hair is put up neatly, not ragged; your lips are plump, not dry and cracked; your freckles are healthy and your cheeks are rosy, not masked by burn spots and starved thin. This is you from back home.

You are not home, however. You have not been home in months and months. So you look away from the glass and take a step forward. Down the corridor from the study, you can hear your brother humming to himself and the muffled opening and shutting of drawers and cabinets. The air is cool, a relief, though a year ago, you would not have thought as much. Then, you would have reached for a shawl, asked your dear uncle if it was alright for you to shut the window; now, though, you stand at the opening, reveling in the breeze. It blows your hair and your clothes, yet you do not feel its breath, and you close your eyes, just for a moment, as the bright, friendly sun brightens the world of your vision.

"Firiel?"

"No, Frodo, I haven't seen your quill."

"She's waking up."

The dream is gone. You attempt to cling to it for a second more, relishing in the vision of home, but you try in vain. The cool air, however, is still here, as well as the warmth encompassing your body. This time, you can feel the breeze as it sweeps across your forehead, gentle, nothing like the harsh, clawing winds of Mordor. This cannot be that place, then, you conclude. And so you let your eyes open. Beside you is Frodo. His hand is bandaged, yet he smiles. He seems healthier than you remember. There is a light in his eyes again. Blankets rest over you (that explains the warmth), and you can feel a pillow under your head. For just one moment, you breathe in the sweet air of a free, good place, and Frodo lays his good hand over yours.