I adore the soundtrack of "The Fellowship of the Ring" and have been listening to it incessantly, one might almost say obsessively, since seeing the movie. However it is almost unbearably sad in places, which led to the writing of this piece.

Although on the movie, Legolas is supposed to be 2931 years old (presumably to help emphasise the great longevity of his race), his actual age is not known, and a convincing case has been made for his being rather young, perhaps only five or six centuries old. Also this story doesn't quite match the account given in the Red Book of Westmarch; this is a more human tale, with less of legend about it.

The Passing of the Fellowship

'The Prince of Mirkwood is in the city, Your Majesty. Shall I have him sent up when he gets here?'

Arwen sighed.

'No, I will go down to meet him. We are old friends.' Old, yes, and in more senses than one.

She wrapped a silken shawl about her shoulders and headed for the main stair. Before she could descend, however, she heard a stir of movement in the courtyard below. A familiar figure clad in grey and green bounded up the marble stairs three at a time. How young and full of life he is, she thought, and yet I do not envy him. His will be the true burden in the end.

'Arwen!' Legolas cried, and embraced her. 'I came as soon as I received your message. How is he?'

'A little weaker than yesterday,' Arwen admitted.

'And you?' His deep blue eyes were narrowed in concern.

She forced a smile.

'I am well.'

'You look tired,' he frowned.

'You mean I look old.'

Legolas stammered out a denial.

'You don't have to flatter me, old friend,' she said. 'I accepted this burden of mortality long ago, and I have no regrets. Especially now.'

Legolas looked away, and Arwen dropped the subject since it was obviously making her friend uncomfortable. At least he did not looked upon her with pity, as some of her kinfolk did.

'Would you like to see Aragorn now?' she asked. 'I think he's awake.'

The elven prince nodded, and took her arm as she turned to show him the way.

Legolas walked at Arwen's side, taking care to match his own steps to the queen's faltering ones. In truth it had shocked him to see how much she had aged. The once raven hair was now frosted with silver, and fine lines spread from the corner of each eye. To see old age in humans was one thing - indeed as an immortal elf he had always found the subject rather fascinating - but to see it happening to one of his own people, and a dear friend at that, was almost more than he could bear. And yet he must brace himself for far worse. For King Elessar, Aragorn Elfstone of the Fellowship of the Ring, was dying.

Arwen led him to a door at the end of the corridor.

'It is but a modest chamber. Aragorn cannot essay the stairs any more, and he is too proud to be carried.' She smiled ruefully.

The room was indeed rather small, but lighter than Legolas had expected. The shutters were wide open to let in the crisp February air, and the white marble walls shimmered with spring sunlight. Aragorn lay propped up on a mound of pillows, his eyes closed as if in sleep, but he roused himself at their entrance.

'Legolas? Is that you?'

The elf knelt by the king's bedside.

'Aye, my friend.'

The king reached out a veined hand, and Legolas took it in his own. So fragile, like a bird's wing. He swallowed hard.

'I'm afraid I'm going to be leaving you soon,' Aragorn rasped. 'You and Gimli will be the only ones left, eh?'

Legolas nodded wordlessly. The king squeezed his hand, a ghost of the strength that had wielded Anduril.

'We showed 'em, though, didn't we? Showed the powers of darkness that the Free Peoples can still unite and overthrow them, no matter how small our numbers. Even little folk like the hobbits. I miss them, you know, Merry and young Pip.'

The king coughed wetly and fell silent, seemingly exhausted by this long speech. Arwen hurried over and felt his brow anxiously.

'Rest now, beloved,' she murmured. 'We will return to see thee later.'

There never was a later. That night, in the early hours of the morning of March the first, 120, King Elessar died. A splendid funeral was held, and the king's body laid to rest in Rath Dinen alongside those of his friends Meriadoc the Magnificent and Thain Peregrin Took. Eldarion was crowned King of Gondor and the city resumed its familiar daily round. Arwen was too preoccupied at first with her own grief to think about Legolas, until one day the captain of the citadel guard came to her.

'Your Majesty, it's about the Prince of Mirkwood.'

'What about him, Deregast?'

'Have you not noticed, Your Majesty? He's been sitting by the fountain in the courtyard for three days now without moving. Fair gives the lads the creeps, begging your pardon, ma'am.'

Arwen hobbled down to the courtyard. There, sitting on the damp paving with his back to the fountain wall, was Legolas. His knees were drawn up and his slender arms wrapped around them, and he stared into space, as still as a statue.

'Legolas?'

The elf drew a deep breath and let it out shakily.

'I was just remembering...all the times we were together.' He looked up at her, and Arwen caught her breath at the look of utter desolation in his eyes. 'I cannot bear it, Arwen. I do not want to be alone.'

'There's still Gimli...' she pointed out.

'Gimli is mortal too. In another century or so he will be gone, and I will be the only one left.'

She knelt awkwardly on the cold paving and took the young elf in her arms. He was trembling like an aspen leaf.

'You have a choice before you,' she murmured. 'But it will not be easy. The Fellowship is sundered beyond all reunion, and you must choose which path to follow.'

Legolas pulled away from her and cocked his head questioningly.

'Your choice is the same as mine,' she said. 'To go into the West, and see again the loved ones who have gone before: the Ringbearers, and Mithrandir. Or to renounce your immortality and let grief take you beyond this life, perhaps to be reunited with Aragorn and Boromir and the two young hobbits. And, one day, Gimli.'

Legolas was silent for a long time.

'How can I choose?' he said at last. 'It is my dearest wish to sail West, ever since I heard the cry of the gulls in Lebennin. Yet I cannot leave my last friend behind.'

'Then take him with you,' she smiled. 'I doubt me that the Guardians of the West would deny passage to any of the Fellowship, especially one favoured by Galadriel herself.'

The young elf prince's face broke into a smile as bright as his sorrow had been dark.

'Thank you, thank you!' he cried. 'I will send for Gimli, and build a ship to take us into the West. Oh Arwen, you are indeed the wisest of us all.'

He kissed her on both cheeks and helped her to her feet, apologising profusely for causing her so much discomfort on his behalf. Arwen just smiled indulgently and watched him race off to write his letter to the dwarf king. For herself there was no such choice left. She would leave here, where so many memories pressed upon her, and seek her own solace in the shadows of Lothlorien until she finally passed beyond, to where her beloved Estel waited for her. In eternity.

'When the cold of winter comes,
Starless night will cover day.
In the veiling of the sun
We will walk in bitter rain.

But in dreams I can hear your name.
And in dreams we will meet again.'