The Shadow Walker

63. The Time That is Given

Legolas's POV

I swallowed hard, but it did nothing to stem the tears beginning to stream down my cheeks.

She was gone.

Two children stood in the doorway, disbelief in their eyes as they took in the scene. The boy I recognized from earlier; the young woman was unfamiliar.

"What have you done!?" she screamed, stepping forward.

Her brother grabbed her arm. "No, Kèolyn, don't!"

She threw her younger brother off, fury filling her brown eyes. Eyes like Amina's. But harder. Colder. Angrier. "You will pay for this, Elf scum," she growled, stepping forward.

Boromir ran in, skidding to a halt behind the other girl. She whirled to attack him with her bare hands, but he wrapped his arms around her, locking her into place and pinning her hands against his chest. Even as she screamed at him, struggled, kicked at his shins, he looked at me and said calmly, "Legolas. Go."

My eyes drifted back to the motionless little girl in my arms, and reluctantly, I stood and reverently set her body on the cot. Her eyes were already closed, and a peaceful smile graced her lips.

It wasn't fair.

Mortality wasn't fair.

"Legolas!" Boromir snapped. The woman he restrained was still fighting him, still struggling to be freed.

There was something of that within me. An animal that had to be uncaged. I had to be alone. I had to grieve alone. Without a backward glance, I fled from the so-called house of healing.

I didn't stop until I had climbed a hill and descended the opposite side, and could no longer see the accursed village and its accursed mortals.

I screamed. Fell to my knees and let my tears fall, listening to my voice echo over the plains. I'd known of mortality all my life, but never seen its cruelty. I'd practically watched Aragorn grow up, but never stopped to think that someday he would grow old, wither, and die.

I suppose I'd always believed I would sail to the Undying Lands before that happened.

I don't know how long I stayed out there. I could have used the sun to track the time passing, but I cared not for minutes or hours. For that was the curse of the Elves—hours blurred into days and years and centuries, and while all else changed, we rarely did. Content to turn a blind eye to the coldness of mortality, we hid away in our homelands and forgot the troubles of others.

By the Valar—we were as bad as the Dwarves.

After what seemed an eternity, but was only a few minutes, footsteps rustled through the grass. Too broken to attempt hiding my tears, I turned to face Faèola.

Her brow furrowed in understanding, and she murmured, "Amina's passing is hard to accept."

"She deserved to live," I choked out. "She deserved a long life with much happiness, far away from this festering orchole."

A moment of silence, then, "She did."

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. How had I gotten so attached to the child? I had only known her for less than a day. "How many times have you witnessed mortality?" I whispered. "How many times have you seen the Valar steal a life?"

"More times than I can count," she answered softly.

"And does it get easier?" I asked bitterly.

"No." Faèola's footsteps came closer, until her hand rested on my shoulder. "But you learn to accept it, to move on. And you learn to never waste a moment with the people you love."