Legolas wept for five hundred years.

A few months after the greatly lamented passing of King Elessar, the fisher-folk of Gondor's southern coast started to tell each other of the silent stranger, slender and tearful, his neglected yellow hair in long tangles, who sat upon the beach and gazed upon the sea the whole day and, as far as anyone could tell, the whole night as well.

They did not pester him, for they were kindly folk; and indeed, some of them left little gifts of food and drink beside him and slipped quietly away, returning later to find their dishes sometimes emptied, but oftentimes untouched.

"He is an Elf," said one.

"Nay, it cannot be," said another, who had travelled lately inland. "I have heard that the very last of the Elven folks have left from the Grey Havens and there will be no more ships."

Legolas sat and looked upon the waves, finding their susurration soothing, their advance and retreat a calming rhythm in which to pass the lengthy days, though nothing could ease his pain. He wondered idly when it was that the sea-longing had left him, for it troubled him no more. Certainly it had been gone by the fateful day when he had gone to the Grey Havens with Gimli to take ship for the Undying Lands.

Legolas stepped aboard the great ship without curiosity, indeed without emotion of any kind. Some of his fellow-Elves still lingered on shore, saying goodbye to their mortal friends, but Legolas had no goodbyes left to say. He had promised Arwen he would embark on this last ship, and embark he did, for Legolas always kept his promises.

Gimli hovered by his side, deeply concerned. Never had he known Legolas to be so utterly silent, so completely unable to summon a smile. It was as if Aragorn's death had turned him half-wraith. And yet the golden Elf did not fade from his grief, as his people were wont to do when they could not sustain a terrible loss. He remained resolutely solid. Gimli stretched out a hand and touched the Elf's arm to reassure himself once more, and Legolas turned to him, affection in his eyes though his lips remained unsmiling.

"Gimli," he said quietly. "Your friendship is immeasurably valuable to me. I would not have you ever believe otherwise."

"Nay, laddie, of course not," replied Gimli, troubled and confused. Legolas rested his hand briefly on Gimli's shoulder and turned to greet the last of the Elves as they embarked. Thranduil was amongst them.

"My son," said Thranduil, opening his arms, and Legolas went to him, hiding his wet eyes against the familiar shoulder. Thranduil ran a soothing hand over the yellow head with a father's licence, and whispered, "There is comfort in Valinor. You will see."

But Legolas did not answer. As the gangplank was raised, Thranduil released him, and Legolas went immediately to the stern of the ship, his eyes fixed upon the shore as the ship moved inexorably away. Gimli stationed himself at his side.

"I cannot, I cannot..." Legolas said suddenly aloud, in an agonized voice. And he began to clamber over the rail of the ship. Gimli grabbed him and held him back bodily.

"There is nothing for you there, lad! Nothing!"

"I know," replied Legolas in strangled tones.

"Gimli," said Thranduil, stern and sad. "Let him go."

Gimli hesitated for a moment, and then in the last, best act of a long and faithful friendship, he let Legolas go.

Legolas swam to shore.

As years passed, and the slender, mourning stranger continued to haunt the beaches, folks began to make up stories about him. They said he had fallen in love with a woman who lived at the bottom of the sea, with a fishy tail, and that she only visited him once in a blue moon, so he spent his life watching and waiting for her to rise out of the water. They said he was not any sort of man, but had been born right there on the beach from the beams of the sun, and now waited patiently until his father would acknowledge him and raise him up into the skies. They said he was one of that fabled race, the Elves, who had once lived in Middle Earth and had all departed, some said by ship, some said simply by turning themselves into air and spiriting themselves away on the wind.

Most of them merely thought he was mad, and ignored him.

Legolas sometimes wondered whether he would eventually go mad as he sat watching the waves turn from blue to grey to black and back to blue. Could one go mad from grief? Certainly there had been a touch of madness in Arwen at the end, when she fled from Minas Tirith and took up residence in the deserted glades of Lothlorien in the last few months of her life.

Legolas followed her there, watching over her from a distance as she wandered from grove to grove amongst the tarnished gold leaves of the mallorn trees.

Arwen knew he was there, of course. But he did not intrude upon her grief, not even when she fell to her knees, sobbing, beating futilely at the grounds with her fists, or rending her once-glorious hair, now turned grey and lifeless. Nor did he approach her when she huddled shivering in the night, her thin court clothes poor protection against the oncoming winter, though he yearned to step near, and gather her into his warm cloak and his sympathy. She knew he was there. She would call for him when she could tolerate another's presence.

One day, as the snowflakes started to drift down, she called him.

"Legolas. Mellon." Gratefully he stepped forward, and she did not repulse him when he embraced her. For a moment, their griefs merged and swelled, and they had to step apart.

"Take me up to Cerin Amroth," she said, for she had not until this time been able to bear to go the hill where she and Aragorn had plighted their troth so many happy years ago. "It is my time, Legolas."

Legolas looked into her face and saw she spoke the truth; that though she had much loved her life, she was truly weary of it now, and wished only to sleep until she could be reunited with her husband in the realm of Ilúvatar at the end of days. And he envied her, deeply and bitterly, but of that he spoke nothing. He put his hand about her waist and they toiled up the hill together.

When they reached a fair spot, Arwen laid herself down upon the greensward and curled up upon her side, weeping softly and clutching the grass.

"Nay, my Lady," said Legolas compassionately. "Let me travel with you as far as I can upon your journey." And he sat and took her head gently into his lap.

"You are kind," she said, and took his hand in hers. "Try not to grieve for him forever, mellon. Promise me you will embark with the others at the Grey Havens."

Though his heart misgave him greatly, Legolas promised. After all, he had already made a greater and far more difficult vow to another.

A wave washed a stray seashell to his feet; Legolas picked it up and caressed it tenderly with a fingertip before he dug a small hole and reverently buried the shell. So had he dealt with the shell that remained of Arwen when she fell into her last and deepest sleep. And then he had picked himself up like a man who walks in slumber and left the woods for the last time, seeking Gimli for the journey to the Grey Havens, since there was naught left to do but keep his promises to the dead.

So many years went by that Men began to surpass Aulë himself in the ingenuity and power of their machines, and there grew to be less space and less privacy on the shore of the sea. The sons and daughters of the fisher-folk now plied their trade on massive ships, or moved inland to earn their bread in other ways. The beaches were overrun by thoughtless children in the day and desperate, homeless men in the night, and though the force of a burning, indignant gaze from the Elf was usually enough to confuse and repel either, yet Legolas, a cave-dweller from his birth, eventually deemed it necessary to retreat to an isolated cavern which overlooked the shore. From here he watched the twinkling of the sun's rays scattered randomly across the waves' tips, and his memories likewise danced bright and scattered across the long years he had known Aragorn. But always he avoided the dark shadow that was the day of Aragorn's death.

One very sunny day, as the glitter of the sea bedazzled his eyes, he bethought himself of the glorious time when they set out as a Fellowship to overthrow evil. How hopeful they were, how keen to take on desperate odds! It had been then that Legolas first had the chance to study Aragorn, the future King, and to realize that he would go anywhere and do any deed, no matter how difficult, for the sake of this man. He was most willingly enthralled into his service. And it was a comfort of a sort to know that he had never failed either Aragorn the leader nor Elessar the King, during all the years they had served Middle Earth together.

To his mind's eye came a picture of Aragorn in those younger days: a shy smile breaking through his habitual sternness, his hair in tangles, his face unself-consciously dirty, his sword ready to his hand but soft words ready to his lips. A mass of attractive contradictions that made one yearn to know him better. Legolas let his head droop to his knees and closed his eyes, smiling a little, the better to see the picture.

He jumped as a hand touched his arm; he had heard no-one approach. He looked up to see the very face he had been envisioning.

"Begone, phantom!" said Legolas aloud. "I am not mad yet."

"I am no phantom," said the other, and the voice was achingly familiar. The hand found Legolas' arm again and pressed it tightly, solidly.

"Do not," said Legolas, his voice cracking with emotion. "Whatever you are, do not torture me with his image, so young, so strong, so alive ..."

"What must I do to convince you?"

But Legolas rose to his feet and walked away, turning his back.

"You have kept your vow," said the other.

"As you see," replied Legolas curtly. But then he whipped around, startled. "What would you know of that, impostor?"

The other sighed. "They have given me a ship," he said. "Will you sail with me?"

It was on the tip of Legolas' tongue to refuse, but the other simply walked out of the cave and started down the steep path to the shore. And then it was that Legolas began to wonder whether it could possibly, miraculously be true that this was his King. For Aragorn, too, would simply have led and assumed that Legolas would follow.

Legolas followed, not really knowing why.

It was a small, trim ship, easily handled by two. For many hours, Legolas held himself apart and silent, but eventually he joined the other at the wheel.

"It is not possible. You were mortal," said the Elf in decided tones.

"I am still."

"But..."

"Believe me, it was ... difficult to be aroused from my sleep. And agonizing to be reclothed in mortal form. I was exceedingly unwilling." The Man looked off in the distance and his face clearly showed the memory of that recent agony.

"The Valar inflicted that on you?" Legolas could not believe it.

"Mandos gave me a choice." The Man looked over to the Elf and laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "They told me you needed me, Legolas. There was no choice to be made."

Legolas bit his lip and a single tear coursed down his face. "It is you," he breathed. And his hand moved of its own volition to touch the tangled hair and caress the bearded cheek. Aragorn's arms slipped around his back and hugged him tight. Then he took the Elf by the shoulders and turned him to look out to sea.

"Look, our destination," he said.

"Not Valinor," said the Elf. He had noticed they were sailing south, not west, but he had not really cared.

"No, not Valinor," replied Aragorn. "I'm afraid there will be much less company. This island is uninhabited."

A slow smile was all of Legolas' answer.

It was a beautiful place, thickly forested but much warmer than Gondor or the Greenwood. There was fresh water aplenty, and much game to hunt. There were fruited trees and plants Legolas had never seen before, but which he knew instinctively to be safe and nourishing. Aragorn had his sword; Legolas quickly fashioned himself a bow, and by nightfall they had shelter, fire and food.

Legolas turned to the Ranger - for truly he was a Ranger again - in the firelight. He had to ask, though he dreaded the answer. "How long have we been given? A day? A year?"

Aragorn's grin flashed in the night. "We have my lifetime, gwador."

And so for nigh on two hundred years, they lived, sang, hunted, sported, and slept side by side upon their island. And every bliss and joy was theirs.

---

One day, Aragorn, grey-headed now and a little slower, though still hale, said to Legolas, "It is time. Again."

Legolas hid his face against a tree, and burst out, "Could you not... Is there no way....?" He closed his hands into fists, and turned back to the Man, saying with forced calm, "I know it."

Aragorn held out a comforting hand and led Legolas to one of their favourite spots near a sweetly plashing waterfall.

"May I at least be with you this time?" blurted the tear-stricken Elf.

"In your arms, if you will permit it," said Aragorn simply. And the Elf seated himself up against a shady tree and opened his arms. Aragorn settled himself into Legolas' embrace, head resting upon his shoulder. By and by his breath began to grow shorter, and he muttered, "I was wrong."

"What is that?"

"I was wrong," repeated Aragorn in a stronger voice. "I had no idea how badly I was making you suffer. I release you from your vow, Legolas. Fade if you must."

"Thank you," whispered Legolas and rested his head against his King's. And Aragorn slipped away so quietly that no-one could have told exactly when it happened.

When Legolas realized it was over, he laid Aragorn gently down and then stood and moaned, low and wild in his throat. And as the sound grew louder, it seemed as though he thinned upon the wind, growing ever more transparent, until there was nothing but the moan fading away and the flickering of a few stray leaves. All of a sudden a thick fog descended over all the island, and though no-one was there to see, it disappeared into nothingness.

The Valar had taken their little heaven and two fëar parted by destiny back into their provident care, until the End of All Things.