A Web of Stars by Idrils Scribe

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Epilogue

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'This is the Hall of Fire' said the wizard. `Here you will hear many songs and tales-if you can keep awake. But except on high days it usually stands empty and quiet, and people come here who wish for peace, and thought. There is always a fire here, all the year round, but there is little other light.'

Fellowship of the Ring, Book II, Ch 1, Many Meetings

 

Imladris, the year 3018 of the Third Age.

 

Legolas came to her in the Hall of Fire. He was silent as he slid into the seat beside her, his face grave. The Lady of Imladris knew she must make a sorry sight, sitting alone with her eyes on the figures across the hall. 

One was small, age-bent and grey-haired. He was seated on a low stool with his back propped against a pillar, his hairy feet bare on the mosaic tiles. Beside him on the ground stood a drinking-cup and a porcelain plate with bread and cold meat. His companion, sitting in a high-backed chair, was tall enough that he had to lean over to converse with the old Hobbit in hushed tones. 

“An unusual pair,” Legolas said softly, not to disturb the minstrels playing a light pavane for those inclined to dancing.  

“They are dear friends.” Arwen could not help but smile — Hobbits tended to inspire good cheer wherever they went. “A shared love of pipe-leaf and poetry. Master Bilbo is quite the wordsmith.”

Legolas’s nose had wrinkled at the mention of pipeweed, but he, too, was affected. “They are a special kind, these Halflings. Master Bilbo in particular,” he replied, his tone indulgent. “My father is quite taken with the little fellow. We would love to host him once more in better times. Alas, for their short lives!”

A silence fell, in which he grasped the bitterness his words must hold for her. He blanched, and his hand clenched around his armrest. Arwen laid hers on it in a gesture of forgiveness, and left it there. They both watched Aragorn’s smile as he debated Bilbo on some peculiarity of rhyme or metre. 

“Arwen …” Legolas hesitated. “You must have heard these words many times, from all here who love you, but I must speak them myself.” 

She cast him a sideways glance, seeing the wet shine to his eyes. “Lúthien’s fate may seem sweet to you now,” he began, hesitant, but then he hit his stride, “but remember the bitterness at the bottom of that cup. You are not her, Arwen! If there is any doubt in your heart, if you desire to walk away … do so. It is not too late to turn from this path you have chosen.”

Arwen had this conversation so many times, with her father, her brothers, her grandparents, her friends. This night it was laid before her once more: a possibility, so bright and seductive. She would see her mother again, in that far green land where nothing decays and nothing ever changes. All who loved her would be spared from grief. 

But what of me? What of my destiny?

She recalled her vision, so long ago in the Greenwood, its hidden meanings now fully understood. Love’s sweetness, the delights of a marriage bed, a baby’s toothless smile. The White City under a swift sunrise. Arnor restored to glory. Seven stars and seven stones, and a white tree. 

All blessings, all hers. 

But the end — ahhh, the end would be bitter as bile. A reckoning, the bliss paid for in full. 

And beyond that … she would know . At the last, she alone of all her House would see what only Lúthien and Elros had yet seen. Aragorn would walk with her, on those strange paths where hope was Men’s only certainty. 

A minstrel’s voice rose to the sculpted rafters in an ancient lament for Doriath, his grief sharp as a blade as he mourned a world drowned beneath the waves of a sea Arwen would never cross.

“I am not Lúthien,” she said at last. “I … I love him, Legolas. Strange as it may sound when said about one so young, I truly do love him.” 

Legolas looked at her with deep searching in his gaze, like a man trying to grasp words written in an unknown language. He was trying, at least, and she needed desperately for him to understand. 

“There is a peace in transience,” she murmured, “in the certainty of an ending. Life can only be full if it is finite.” The pain in his eyes was a slap, so she added hastily, “And I shall make my mark before then.”

He cast her a sideways glance. “You are certain of this? Do you not doubt, in your heart of hearts?”

“No,” she said with full conviction, her eyes on Aragorn as he sat there beside the old Hobbit. She was suddenly terrified for her beloved. He was great and noble, but just a Man — mortal and fallible, and burdened by the greatness of his destiny. He might yet fail.

“Will you watch over Aragorn in the war to come?” she asked Legolas. “Will you go with him to the very end?”

Legolas took her hand, and brought it to his lips for a soft kiss. His hand was warm around hers, and she was painfully aware of the blood beneath the skin, thrumming with the life of the Eldar. His smile became a deep well of sadness.

“Arwen … my friend.” Even after all these years, her name was a blessing on his lips. “If this is your will, then I will see it done.” 

 

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Chapter End Notes

And so we reach the end of this little tale!

I'd like to give many thanks and a round of applause to my wonderful betas who made this story so much better.

Thank you, reader, for joining Arwen and Legolas on their adventure, and for all the phenomenal feedback! I'd love to hear your final thoughts about this tale. A comment would make my day, as would any recs!

The next chapter is a little peek at my next story: The Ring and the Star. I'm also working on new chapters for 'Roots and Wings', and 'The Roads not Taken'. 

Thank you all for your support for my work, and see you soon!

Idrils Scribe