Lost Tales from Middle-earth

Breakdow, News and a Balrog

Rhaweth fell behind, and her eyes glistened with deep sorrow. Legolas approached her, concerned. She didn't seem to see him, so, reluctantly, he lightly touched her shoulder, which had seemed to become a habit.

Her eyes rose to meet his and it was as if lightning struck him. She looked...broken. As if her entire world had perished before her eyes. He did not think and pulled her into a deep embrace. At first she was startled, but after a moment, she relaxed and wrapped her arms around him, letting her tears run freely on her cheeks.

For a long time they stood without moving, pulled tight against each other until the others were far ahead and they had to catch up with them.

The Fellowship had come to a halt.

"What were you doing?" Inquisitively said Boromir. Before Rhaweth could speak, Legolas answered.

"It does not concern you."

"It concerns me if the Lady is not mentally stable enough to come with us and slows us down!"

This time it was Rhaweth who spoke.

"Who are you to speak to me about mental stability? Have you seen all of your friends and every single member of your family die before your eyes? Have you lost the Love of your Life to a Curse laid upon you by a Shadow of Morgoth? Have you caused the greatest error of our times? Have you felt the emptiness of living by only killing? Have you ever felt like Death would be preferable to the shred of existence that you must endure every day? Have you lost your path and your future? If you have done and felt all that I have done and felt, then you can speak to me as you have just done. Until then, leave me be, for this place only brings to me memories of Fire and Death."

Boromir stared at Rhaweth as if she had just pierced him with her elegant elven sword. She turned around, and went ahead, behind Gandalf. The Wizard pivoted to look at them. He gazed into the Prince's eyes, as if he knew something that the heir of the Woodland Realm did not. Legolas turned his head away, and his eyes met the ones of Boromir. The son of Denethor was crestfallen. He still had not recovered from what Rhaweth said.

—————

The King was strolling in the forest. He had sent his guard away. He entered deep in the woods, far from his kingdom. As he walked, he could feel the poison of Evil. He could feel it destroying his home, his trees, his Land, slowly bringing decay upon what once was Beleriand. Now a shadow had fallen upon them all. The once green, beautiful and brimming with Life forest was now called Mirkwood. A place of darkness and despair.

For he was alone, he let his tears fall down freely. He cried for the plants, for the animals, for the air, for the earth, all dying, all mourning things, all living things whose existences had been ruined by Morgoth and Sauron his servant. He cried for his father, who should have been at his side longer, he cried for his mother, who had not survived losing her husband, he cried for all the fallen elves that perished during the battle of Dagorlad. He cried for Alcariniel, who he did not know if was still alive, for all told him that she had perished for none had seen or heard of her since.

Thranduil looked up. His feet had brought him to a clearing deep in the forest. Not just any clearing though. Their clearing. The place where he and his love would go whenever they wished to be alone. He had unconsciously come back.

He walked to the center and lay upon the grass that still was green, as if the soil still remembered her. He turned his head to the sky. It was so blue. His hand reached out for the clouds above him. He closed his eyes. For many hours he lay there, thinking about her. The night had fallen when he got up once more. He left and did not look back once. He had been weak to succumb to his burning desire of seeing her again. This could not happen again. He had to keep his head straight up. He had to forget her and the terrible memories that he carried. He had to be a King.