Disclaimer: JRR Tolkien alone owns the tales of Middle-earth.

…

Its permanence is carved in stone. She and her people can not leave the Circles of the World until the End. The End, structured in their minds with varied speculations, shall come, must come. And among the things she believes in, or wants to believe most in, is the completion of the Great Music, by which all the Children of the World shall come together at the foot of Iluvatar's throne, to gather there and sing; the Elder Children and the mortal races together at last. Or perhaps none was said about it, and more importantly nor of its unlikelihood. On that score, it is altogether possible, Finduilas Faelivrin muses, never thinking she may have been weaving impossible thoughts out of her deep yearning, fruitless they may be.

It is now the Fourth Age of the Sun in Middle-earth's reckoning. While she keeps track of the years, to no avail because the passing of time scarcely means the waning of anything in Aman, steadfastly she waits. For how can she not, when many of her people who only for the first time set foot in Aman have countless stories to tell? They waited long, and have now come to the end of their journey. These are the Sindar, the Moriquendi as most of the Eldar call them. And she wonders so; how does one yearn for something he's never known? Legolas Greenleaf, when he first came to her, at least gave her that much to think about.

Midday it was, many months ago,

"The Light of Aman was ever in our hearts, though the Two Trees were but legends to the Moriquendi during our time in Middle-earth."

The Sindarin prince seemed to her young and full of vigor, and above all filled with the colors of the Mortal Lands from whence he came. Around this time, as what was evident from the number of ships that landed on the shores of Alqualonde, Middle-earth had been relieved of the Elder Children.

"The Holy Light you shall see again, for the End which is to come shall bring permanence to all there is, and all that was."

Legolas looked at her in wonder, and indeed great wonder was in her words. She said it as though it was possible, when the most she counted on or expected was not within anyone's power to grant, unless it be Iluvatar. And with sorrow, the shine in her eyes glittered away at half awhile. Yet even in her grim silence, he thought her fair, fairer than all the elves he had thence met in Aman.

"Are they to come back, all that is lost?"

"Their spirits have indeed passed on through and over the Halls of Mandos, but Feanor, greatest of all the Eldar, shall walk among us once more, and all who were barred from the Holy Lands. For all time it never was, never will, and so his music shall fill these halls again."

Legolas surmised that these were the kind of thoughts which could be annihilated by what was written in stone, otherwise by reality. Indeed, Finduilas was wise beyond her years and had certainly established her beliefs as truths with which to govern her mind, he observed, but despair could remove wisdom. And she was despairing. Nevertheless, he didn't dare deny her consolation, not when she needed it most.

"Maglor, the mighty singer? Yes, so great a treasure ought not to be sundered from his people." The Sindar replied. He couldn't tell what prompted him to say such, though he heard tale from many that the Noldor had held the son of Feanor in great esteem, as everyone still does.

"You know much about the Noldor and their past, my friend. But, alas, Lord Maglor has yet to come to Mandos, for still he roams the mortal shores, whether at the mouth of the Encircling Seas or across the plains of Middle-earth none can tell. Roaming, drifting, singing ever and anon of his woe..."

Her eyes were filled with tears. And there Legolas could've sworn to brave the Belaeger if she'd permit it, if only to find him, he who was lost for Ages past and who would light a smile on her face. Nay, he couldn't venture to depart, not now when all the treasures of the world had receded to lesser value. Finduilas Faelivrin, daughter of Orodreth, was of the beauty surpassing all the jewels in the world. To walk with her along the banks of Lorien's lakes, how delightful...

Even in the light of the thoughts she had thus far revealed, Legolas knew too well the tale of Maglor, who had in Elder Days been enmeshed unsalvageable in the web of everlasting darkness which he and his brothers took upon themselves, and that if not in the Halls of Mandos should any of them abide for all time, their place was thereby well beyond the Circle in which Arda was confined. Furthermore, such doom also applies to others dear to the Eldar, others who are now memories of ages past and shall return not, unless the End, if it is to come, remakes Ea. One is Maeglin, son of Aredhel. Few loved him, yet all the same Aredhel shall never recover the same light she formerly possessed, for her son was dear to her beyond understanding. There is Maedhros, a true prince of the Noldor, for whom Fingon grieves.

Andreth.

Andreth the Wise, daughter of the Elf-friends… Andreth the Mortal, whom her father's brother, Finrod, befriended. The mortal woman's value to Felagund was one of the many testimonies to the great love exchanged between the house of the Elf-friends and Lord Felagund. Hence Finrod with his gentle nature enumerated to her the reasons why Aegnor, his brother, with whom the woman was deeply in love, could in no way fulfill his love for her. In conclusion, however great the love was which existed between Aegnor and Andreth, ultimately it failed to spare them the consequences of the plurality of the inhabited worlds.

They suffered that much, so why shouldn't she share the same suffering? Wasn't this world, along with the oceans, set in place to serve as a permanent obstacle to any further hope of reconciliation with him whom she loved just as deeply as Aegnor loved the mortal woman?

...

The Mormegil.

Thoughts of him prove her existence to be fearfully twofold. She delights during the day in the company of her people who remind her of the life she led as a princess in Nargothrond. Like every living soul, she can be perfectly acquainted with happiness, a happiness much like an impunity reminiscent of that granted one in innocence. Indeed, as things are, one might have taken her to be entirely resigned to her fate, that is, to be the wife of the Elven Prince Gwindor. If only she does not desire something besides, the supposition may have been more than a supposition. But whenever darkness envelopes the sky, her soul rest-assuredly drifts away with the retreating light.

She loves Turin still; that is something she cannot dispel.

"Tell me something, princess of the house of Finarfin," Legolas is saying to Finduilas, and assuming the interview cannot be done with subtle remarks, he goes on, "Do you view everything there is now as settled in the correct order of things, that this is how it should be?"

He wants to assert his happiness and weld this happiness insolubly to hers. On the other hand, she at once recognized his approach as something pleasant but less effective. No, her inner turmoil cannot be dissipated by the mere affectations of someone quite fair and good.

"On the contrary, no. Where we are now and what we're here for, though not entirely desultory, appear to be lacking in finality." She answers resolutely, restraining any manifestation of feeling.

The elf gazes at her, not knowing how to conduct language between himself and this majestic lady without doing so, and feels ashamed, whether for his boldness or ignorance he could not have said. At length, he speaks, more decided, "If you so ever desire that which is beyond my power to deliver, I shall exhaust anything at my disposal for its achievement, only tell me."

To her, he sounds promising, though hopeless quite as much, and this mood only serves to intensify the quakes in her soul rather than remove them. With this, she is prompted to gather her thoughts. Hence, without meaning to, she recalls in particular what has recently taken place, to allot significance to what is gnawing at her heart, if not for any other reason.

"Lord Aegnor, my father's brother, what can you say about his decision?"

"Are you, by any chance, referring to his refusal to wed the Vanyarin princess, Earnen?" He inquires with difficulty, as if her very question is that barrier set to hinder conversation.

She nods in assent.

"I attach no hostile meaning to it, except that, personally, I could not have conceived a better match."

"Can you imagine any specific reason as to why he resorted to such an unbecoming action?"

Legolas is starting to feel the difficulties of maintaining himself under her scrutiny and this hush of expectation. He knows exactly the mainspring of Lord Aegnor's action, though not what the Elf-lord seeks to gain by completing it. Aegnor loves still a woman who is irretrievably gone. He knows, as much as everyone is aware, of the injurious ripples his consent might occasion the lives of others, above all his own, had he chosen to pursue what is expected of him. But for the most part, Aegnor can never marry another in so long as he has his past. Having bound himself to a promise he made to her who is no more, that he shall never marry unless she be the bride, he can not unite himself with another any more than he desires so. And what would he give to be reunited with her? The thought alone makes Legolas shudder, as if he himself is staring into a pit infested with everything unknown, knowing all the while how meekly this sensation compares to Aegnor's adversaries. Surely, so great a love cannot easily be extinguished by mere passing of time. He answers,

"Andreth of the House of Beor."

"Yes. In consequence there is very little happiness stored for him."

"Indeed. I fear there is none left at all."

"And mine, prince, can you determine if there is any left for me?"

It appears to him that she cannot contemplate her past calmly, being with scarcely any means of obtaining real joy anymore. She loved, once upon a fateful time, that much he knows, and with certainty at that. But just as he is aware of countless things, he is more so of the presence of her sorrows. Living and breathing though she is, hers is an existence drawn apart from the rest by life itself. In the depths of her soul, she resides somewhere beyond this world, where what they know as time and circumstance pass in accordance with will; in a dream, so to speak. He is correct in all these, for she long ago realized she was deceiving herself in supposing she could be what she once was before she met Turin Son of Hurin.

Needless to say she is treading a definite path from which there is no departing, Legolas remains silent. He can say no more upon coming to distinguish that very object which separates Finduilas Faelivrin and Aegnor from the confines of reality; not the bitterest kind of misfortune whose mere memory tends to lodge deep in one's soul, but this singular longing to leave the world in which they exist physically, if only for a little while.

All these were being unraveled before him while he, being but a spectator, cannot allow himself to alter her beliefs. Perhaps he has come to love her, as one might a broken, beautiful creature who's beyond saving. And as the onslaught of silence stretches on to great lengths, their surroundings appear to grow more terrible the longer they stand there.

Indeed he loves her, in the same line of thought as that he can't help it any more than he can abstain from breathing. It wasn't merely true and logical, but also in harmony with all known facts. As a result, this feeling entails the end of the hesitation in his heart. He becomes sure of nothing else, least of all his own bearing. But not knowing when or how this feeling came upon, he resolves to adapt her thoughts, transform himself, fly to another world where there is very little interval between desire and its fulfillment, for to love her here and now in the palpable world is a violation of her dreams and the inner truth they embody, for which alone she lives. And so it is that he cannot develop this desire, at least not in her knowledge.

If it's any comfort, he could be Gwindor when he was her betrothed, or the Turin who dwelt in Nargothrond, but this time he would return her love. In his mind.

"The happiness you seek I cannot ensure, much less supply, but know this; I prize it more than my own." He pauses, the silence prolonging itself. She remains composed, awaiting neither encouragement nor sympathy. At last, having been so much embattled with emotion, he continues to propose his solution, "Princess, Mandos is your salvation. Never, for an instant accept that you deserve less than the fortunes of Luthien and Beren, of Tuor and Idril, of Arwen and Aragorn. I entreat you to seek him, Master of Spirits. I know nothing of his designs nor of the magnanimity so seldom attributed to him, but should you and Lord Aegnor be sentenced to this desolation forever… oh I shan't live with it! An arrangement such as that is impossible. To deny you happiness is beyond cruelty. And the Valar are merciful."

He expects her to smile at his honesty and ignorance, fancying he earns that smile but can not secure it. Looking at her, he starts to disbelieve the infallibility of his proposal, and now only wishes to punish his distasteful idea. However, she turns to him. Without uttering a word, her thoughts channel through him.

Yes, this task I shall undertake, otherwise I remain a ghost, ever agonizing for a closure. One day is all I ask of you, Mandos; one single day to steal a glimpse of his face, to exact an answer past its due, and finally to love him, who was Turambar. I beg thee, oh Doomsman, Discoverer of All Things, for one day to be granted Lord Aegnor and the mortal Andreth, as a reprieve between an eternity of solitude and remorse. I implore you, so that I may resume living where I ought to, in exchange for that one span of time between daybreak and dusk.

END

A/N: Earnen, the mentioned Vanyarin Princess, is an invention of mine. Sorry for that.

Also, the category on which this falls is neither The Silmarillion or LOTR. To be safe, I opted for the latter because the time line in which the events in this crap are contained directly succeeds LOTR.

Lastly, I'm sorry that this has to suck, but i had to upload it lest I forget what to do with it.