He was dying. He could feel it in his body, the ending of life, like a valve being shut off ever so slowly. He was tired, very tired. He supposed in a way that might be because he was old, but he hadn't felt tired before. He wanted to raise his hand to wipe away the film from his eyes, but the effort was greater than the need. Yet, even tired as he was, he could still think, and he knew the bitterness of regret.
He still had so much to do, and a promise to be kept. Yet, he was only mortal and that mortality was playing an evil trick on him now. There would be no elf to heal his hurt this time, no guardian angel to keep the dark angel at bay. He sighed softly. If only, rang in his heart. If only he could have done what he had promised.
He had tried to tell the story, tried to make people see. And in the doing so, hoped that he would find the ending he was desparately searching for. He had taken the Red Book from it's place, painstakingly translated it, and had given it to the world. And the world had not heard him. It had not been ready for the truth. Bitterness tinged his mind, not even those he had cared so much for understood his work. The true story of the Ring, they could not comprehend.
NO. He faced his truth. He had failed. He had made a promise and had failed miserably at keeping it. He could no more free the Prince of Mirkwood, than he could halt his own demise. He apologized to the lost soul hoping that the apology would span the distance separating them. He would not dare to hope that he might once again gaze upon that fair face, to be able to tender his regret in person. He had not seen the Elf these many years since the War; the memory of their parting as fresh as the memory of yesterday.
Out in the hall, John could hear the gathering that was his family. He frowned at the whispered arguments, the low tones of dissension that ruled his world now. He was very afraid for the future of his work. There was not one among his children who had shown even the slightest interest in the Truth. He knew they thought he had cracked. They didn't have to say so to his face, it was evident in their every move concerning him or his estate. Cautious questions, raised eyebrows, and smothered whispers, all told him what was going on. He was old but he wasn’t stupid.
There was only one person he could trust with the Truth, a friend that he had known for several years. He could only hope that the friend might find in his heirs someone worthy of continuing the quest. He had written Christopher over the holiday, asking him to come. They had spent many a long evening discussing the Red Book and the lost soul. Christopher had done his best to aid the ailing author when it became apparent that there was to be no family involvement.
So it was that the Red Book would pass out of the hands of the family that had held it for so many centuries, and into the hands of Christopher Lee, actor, scholar and friend. John had carefully shared the book with Christopher over the years, cautiously sounding out the young actor. When he had shown that he was capable of grasping the reality of the unreal situation, John had shown him the artifacts carefully hidden in the attic. He had allowed him to read the Red Book for himself; had entrusted this legacy into the hands of someone not of the Blood of Aragorn.
Christopher had readily agreed to become the caretaker. He was sworn to secrecy, to observing the family, and if in time no one proved worthy, of finding yet another guardian for the Book. He had promised him that he would continue the saga, continue with John's quest to free the elf. In fact Christopher was currently researching some ancient occult texts, hoping to find the key that would unlock the chains that bound the Prince.
But now, John's time was running out. He could feel the creeping weakness invading him, and knew it wouldn't be too long. There came a sound from the hall, the children were arguing again. He closed his eyes and took a labored breath. Then another.
A scent of the deep woods filled his senses, calming his soul and he knew that he was no longer alone.
"I am sorry, my Prince." his aged voice cracked with his regret.
"Do not be, young Tolkien." the soft voice spoke close to his ear. John smiled wryly before opening his eyes. The sapphire depths of the Prince were but inches from him. The Elf knelt beside his bed, the sadness intensified in his eyes.
John raised a finger and for the first time, touched the Elf. Legolas didn't draw away from the questing finger but allowed it to trace his cheek. John marvelled at the smooth softness of skin that he felt. He reached out and touched the gold that was the Elf's hair. It was longer than he remembered but now in this time, long hair was all the rage.
"Softer than silk." he whispered. He chuckled slightly. "How I envy you. Young forever."
"I would envy your death..." Legolas whispered. The loneliness he felt shone in his eyes and John again apologized. "Do not. It is my burden not yours."
Legolas knelt beside the bed until the last breath left the body of the only human to name him in centuries. As he watched the mortal pass, he felt the breaking of his heart once again. He had watched so many of Aragorn's children pass through the veil, how many more must he hold vigil with until his debt was paid? How long must he endure for loving his King?
The questions were old questions. Ones asked often and as often unanswered. Only one had cared to see him for who he had been, only one cared to try to end this torment. Now that one was dead. Legolas felt the weight of his curse grow as fresh as the day Arwen had cast it.
A tear made it's way slowly down the elven cheek to drop on the face of the man who had given him hope. Legolas stood and placed the gentle kiss of peace on the cooling brow.
"When you see them, tell them I still live." he whispered.