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Title:  Even in Death

Author:  Rosalyn Angel (rose_angel_ff8_ff7@yahoo.com)

Pairing:  Haldir/Legolas

Rating:  PG

Summary:  "I died.  I followed him.  Where did I lose
my way?"

Disclaimer:  Do you see Haldir and Legolas gettin’
jiggy wit’ it at any time?  No?  Thought so.

Author’s Notes:  . . . egads. ^_^  B E W A R E!  This
is a SEQUEL to my fic "Anywhere," and I’m very
frightened it’s going to ruin the original!  I had
this in mind after finishing "Anywhere," as some may
be able to tell from the cryptic ending of it (the
last line, "Farewell," got people to send me e-mails
basically saying: "What happened?  Aren’t they
together now?  Why did Haldir say bye?").  So, I said
to myself: "Self, why are you leaving these poor
people in the dark?  Why did you end it so cruelly
there?  Are you really that sadistic? . . . yes, self,
I know I am; but that’s not the point."

I’m just really struggling with making this story as
good as, or perhaps better than, the original.  I
would hate for it to ruin anyone’s views or thoughts
on the first one, so I’m really iffy on posting this
up; but so many people asked me what had happened. 
And I thought I could slip that by you guys in the
ending; but no!  All of you are just too smart for me.
^_^

Again this is in Legolas’ POV, set after "Anywhere." 
(I strongly urge you to read that first, if you
haven’t, or else you might be like: ". . . what’s
going on?"  It can be found on www.fanfiction.net
under my pen name of Rosalyn Angel since this story
would be posted up with it as a second chapter of
sorts, or at www.libraryofmoria.com; it is also
scattered across the internet in various places. 
Bwahah!)  This also deals with my view of the *agony*
of Mandos’ Halls and the absolution it brings at the
end.  It’s . . . *very strange*, darker than the
original (I like to think so, at least)!  Be warned:
if you were content/happy with the ending of
"Anywhere," you might not want to read this.  I
wouldn’t want to ruin your view on it!

Once more- *is afraid of writing sequels in general*
o_o;; *prays it’ll be all right*

 

"Even in Death"

by: Rosalyn Angel

 

    *Farewell.*

    Is he here?  Can I stretch out and touch him – is
he within my reach now?  Have I not waited long
enough?  Is he next to me now, even though I cannot
see?  Is he looking at me at this moment, with his
dark silver eyes; will he allow me to meet his gaze
forever now?  Will we look at each other and hold each
other’s hands – I have waited long.  I have done what
needs to be done.  I am tired; why am I here?  Is he .
. .

    I do not understand.

    There is nothing but darkness around me.  I have
no hands to grasp his, I have no eyes to see his.  I
have not a breath or a heart beat; I just am.  There
is nothing here besides my mind, my thoughts and my
memories.  I neither walk nor float; I do nothing but
think.  I have no other sensations: I can no longer
run through the golden forest, feeling my feet dash
across the fallen leaves; I can no longer smell the
sweet sap of the trees; I can no longer hear the
birds’ songs in the clear morning air – I am alone,
with absolutely nothing around me, not even my own
body.

    Do I fear this?  Yes.  I fear this.  I wonder, how
long will I linger here?  Have I done something wrong,
some ill-begotten thing, for me to deserve to be put
here?  I have done nothing –

    *Come with me.*

    I died.  I followed him.  Where did I lose my way?
 Is he not supposed to be next to me now?  This is
worse than before; worse than my ghost of him looking
away from me!  Now I see nothing but my own mind, my
own dreadful twisted mind; and I have no one to turn
to but myself.  I cannot even gaze upon his face,
though dull and lifeless it was, to be reassured that
he was somewhere – perhaps waiting for me?  Maybe he
is still somewhere, waiting for me to find him.  When
I do, he will smirk and say I took long enough; then
he will open his arms and kiss me.  I will feel weak
and vulnerable to his touch, but he will hold me up
and whisper of pretty things; and I will cry and say I
missed him and speak about how I longed for his hands
and that I love him . . .

    I cannot move.  I can do nothing but think.  He
may as well be right next to me and I would not know;
I would not be able to reach out and feel his silver
hair slip through my fingers, his hand clasping mine –
this is worse than before; take me back; I want to go
back!  It hurts . . . can no body hear me?  Nay, I
have no voice; I cannot sing or call his name – take
me back!

    *"What brings you here to the Wood?"*

    I have memories to cling to.  They flit across my
mind, and there I can see them; I can hear and smell
and touch them there.  But only if I remember: most
things are blurred or missing from times passing by
too much, and I cannot recall them clearly; people’s
faces are absent from their hazy bodies as they move
in a dance across my mind.  Only he can I remember
every detail, every movement; and it is agony.  My
mind tortures me with these memories and with the
nothingness that surrounds me: I have no control over
how they proceed and when they are shown to me, like
scenes in a play being acted out with ghastly
performers.

    He is there, but I cannot touch him: only this
past version of myself may do so.  It is like watching
my love caress and kiss another – so alien do I feel
to it all!  I see, hear, feel, smell nothing; but
there is this *other* able to do all I crave, with my
face and smile and walk, luring him in the way I did .
. . yet we are connected somehow, and teasing pieces
of my life brush across my mind – it is ineffable; I
am confused and frustrated.  I want to scream: "Get
away from him!  Haldir, can you not see that I am
here?  That is not me: it is a memory of me.  Love, I
am lost and alone!  Why did you leave me here?  Why
was I brought here, already faded and with nothing
left but my past?"  But I have no voice: I cannot be
heard.

    Is he angry at me?  Have I done something wrong? 
All those nights when he stared at me, was it in hate?
 The cool indifference of those eyes, and the fire
they held as they were turned on me, were they
animosities?  Did he intentionally leave me here, to
suffer within my own mind, to rot and wither away
further? 

    No, no – he would not do such a thing!  These
thoughts cannot be my own!  They flood my head not of
my own accord, dark whispers of dark things, trying to
convince and lull me with wrong answers. 

    *Let me go.*

    A plea – a plea it was.  Did I make him suffer
like I am now?  It was my fault he was made to linger;
I held him back for my own self-pity.  Or did he
choose to stay behind?  Then why did he wish of me
that?  I could not hold him back with my own hands; he
could have simply vanished, out of my sight, and rest
wherever he choose to.  But yet he did not: so it was
my doing; I made him stay.  He is angry at me!  He
told me to let him go, but I did not do so.  I am
selfish and immature, needy and dependent –

    *Let me go!*

    He hates me!  He is yelling at me; his voice has
twisted itself into some horrible bellowing thing. 
The memories in my mind blur and mash together,
grinding into each other until they are inseparable
and indistinguishable.  I cannot see my precious
images of his silver form any longer; all are crude
and dark images of what they once were: trees are bent
and leafless, people are blackened and muttering among
themselves of evil news, the ground is distorted and
sways this way and that, the sky is rumbling and
screaming – he is screaming!  He sounds to be in pain;
his voice seems so close, echoing and crying out and
enveloping all:

    *Let me go!*

    I grow frantic: stop! I say.  I am sorry!  I did
not wish to hurt you!  If I knew it pained so much . .
.

    He wanted to end it; he resorted to all
possibilities.  If I would not let go, he would take
me with him; then he would abandon me as a punishment.
 He hates me, he must; I was so unknowingly cruel –
will he forgive me?  He must know I am sorry, he must!


    No . . . no, it is all right: these notions are
not true.  They are fabrications of fell things.  I
must not listen, I must not heed . . .

    He hates me . . .

    ******

    I want to quiver, tremble, whimper, close my ears
and my eyes.  I am not allowed these comforts: I am
forced in my bodyless state to endure the harsh
recollections, the disfigured and crooked visions. 
They take the inklings of evil from every place and
bring them out fully, laid out across my mind.  This
is a wretched place.  I try not to think much: the
awful pondering of him might return.  I want to just
stop it all and not exist; anything would be better
than this, better than the warped image of his eyes in
hatred and his hands reaching to wrench and strangle.

    There has to be a better explanation.  He would
not do this to me . . . would he?  No, no, he would
not!  There is another reason, some sound reason, some
loving reason; his voice was too kind when he said
*come with me*: it was an offer, a way to a lovely
dreaming place with him at my side and me at his.  I
calm myself, sooth my mind, and think.

    He always looked away when I tried to meet his
gaze.  Was that shame on my behalf?  Nay, his demeanor
at brief intervals was full of longing.  Longing for
something – for me?  Was he suffering like I was at
that exact moment?  Longing for the one he could no
longer have, to touch my face and trace the curves of
my neck and shoulders?  Was it too much to meet my
gaze – did he feel he would collapse?

    Was he sad?  For himself, for me?  For us both,
for the lost memories to be made . . . for leaving me
behind in the world?  Did that pain him, when I
dragged my feet and cast my eyes to the floor; did he
pity me then?  Did he wish to end my ache . . .

    The darkened memories twist again, wavering.

    His eyes!  I remember now: they stared into mine
at night, not with loathing, but with hope and that
same sad longing; he saw me and my pain – and yes, he
had his own; but me, mine – he saw and knew how much I
miss him . . .

    *Let me go.*

    The screaming dies down to a soft whisper, not
muttering but a cool brush of air, caressing like a
lover; it is almost as if it promises me: everything
will be all right.  The memories slowly begin to fade,
flickering and grasping for the ruthless control they
held before.  But the caress of his voice stays
strong.

    He wanted me to let him go, not because he hated
me for keeping him there, but because he saw me
hurting and wished for me peace; he knew if I moved
on, I might have happiness.  He knew this and he tried
to reach me so, but I had foolishly not understood!  I
could not have let him go anyway: I love him beyond
measure.

    *Come with me.*

    A solution!  A beautiful solution: he would not
have left me to suffer thus.  He offered his hand to
find happiness elsewhere, perhaps in another life
somehow; be it a thousand days until we rest together,
or a thousand years.  A *farewell* until then: he knew
what would happen here, he experienced it briefly
before I unconsciously called him back out of my
yearning.  He knew we would be separated, beloved
Haldir!  I understand!  A small thing of hope, but to
desperately cling to it: that is worth bearing the
cruelty of this place – these Halls.  Yes, that is
where I am: the Halls!  He must be here, also like me:
isolated and sorting through his thoughts!

    The memories disappear all together.  I am left in
darkness, complete and utter darkness; but this does
not bother me.  For the long time I have stayed here,
I feel content.  I understand now: he loves me.  He
wants me to be free.  And soon, maybe soon, maybe
later, maybe *now* . . . I will see him again.

    A silver figure flutters far away, into my vision:
I can see now through real eyes and hear with real
ears; I no longer rely on mere remembrances.  The
figure pauses and turns: I can barely outline it, but
I know it is he.  Without a sound, surrounded by
blackness, he walks, feet skimming nothing but a
bottomless floor.  Yet he moves straight toward me;
and I see him clearer and clearer: thin silver strands
of hair swaying as he tilts his head; long pale face
soft and welcoming; firm lips leisurely turned up in a
smile; easy strides with graceful legs and crossed
arms, as if to say: it took you long enough, love.

    He reaches me and I want to cry: the tears burn at
the rims of my eyes.  I feel so happy; he is there,
right before me!  After all these long years, all of
this brutal pain, he is *there* and I *love him* . . .

    His hand draws toward me; and then I am no more.

    ******

    A young Elf, of but a hundred years or so yet
appearing in his early twenties, kicks his booted foot
into the ground and sends a flurry of pale golden
leaves up into the air, making them twirl in the
flickering sunlight that peers through the forest
canopy.  Stories have told of this place, of its
beauty and magnificence; but to him they are stories
told for children’s ears, for the forest is no longer
as majestic as it was once.  Its Queen left it, they
say; it misses her dearly and it began to decay in her
leaving.  The grey bark is a little rougher and a
little darker, and the branches are a little more
gnarled.  But the leaves remain golden, covering the
ground and hanging onto their trees on a life’s whim,
before they snap off and spin to join their brothers.

    He runs a long hand through his waist-length hair,
the same hue as the leaves and braided in a civilian
manner.  Though he is a mere soldier in the Lord
Celeborn’s (who now lives in a place he titles East
Lorien) arsenal, all of his friends tell him he has a
type of air that demands to be obeyed: he is to be
promoted soon to a higher status, though not one of
great importance.  The days are peaceful, but there
are still stray Orcs about.  He has felled many, a
considerable count, and is recognized for it.  Though
his true power only shines when one sees him: he holds
his head high and proud, like royalty, but yet he is
kind and forgiving; and his smile softens his normally
impassive face.

    Long has he heard of the old realm of Lothlorien
from his parents, civilians like him; and of the Nine
Walkers that saved the world hundreds of years ago. 
The story intrigues him, but one stands out among the
rest: an Elf prince of Mirkwood, who died mysteriously
one night.  The young Elf is curious about the Prince
and feels drawn to the Wood of Lorien.  He considers
it respect for his own kin and appreciation for what
was once glorious.  Whatever is it, he is there now,
under the golden sunlit canopy; and he walks with his
slim hands folded behind his back, enjoying the peace
and quiet of a deserted forest.

    There is a rustle to his right and he spins, hands
clasping the bow on his back and an arrow from his
quiver.  The arrow is set faster than the eye can
follow and he pulls the string taut, darting bright
blue eyes around the columns of trees, searching for
any signs of possible danger.  His breath quickens in
anticipation for battle, his palms gripping fiercely
onto his weapons, his fair face drawn into a
concentrating frown.  He hears another clamor behind
him and turns quickly.  A form is suddenly in front of
him – he lets go of his arrow with a shout of
surprise, and it swiftly sticks into the ground at the
stranger’s feet with a *twang*.

    "Ai!" the stranger yelps in a boyishly low voice,
sounding the same age as the first.  "I gave you
warning of my coming, yet you shot at me still!"

    The Elf feels a flare of defiance in his chest at
the indirect insult.  He swings his bow onto his back
and bends to yank his arrow from the dirt, sliding it
into his quiver with the rest.  "You did not speak!  I
took you for an Orc!"

    "An Orc?" the other sputters, crossing his arms. 
"I was merely approaching you as an Elf should on
another: quietly yet distinctively.  It is you who are
eager to loose arrows!  What brings you here, to my
secret place?"

    It is then when the young Elf looks up and meets
the eyes of the stranger; he becomes transfixed at the
image and freezes in his place.

    Blue meets with silver, and their hands reach out
to shake in a warm first greeting.

 

    ~fin~