Authors’ Note: We received several reviews that expressed confusion at the end of this story. Well, we wouldn't want it to be said that we cannot heed constructive criticism, so we wrote this. You might call it an epilogue...or maybe a prologue to what will come?

Isobel wriggled uneasily, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. She was no horsewoman, but what could she do? This was bound to be a long, uncomfortable trip, she knew that much. The plan was to take the long way, approaching Minas Tirith from the west and south. This would add some weeks to the journey, but it was decided that this would be a safer road.  At times she almost wished she had stayed in Rivendell, and she thought back on the comfortable chairs and warm fires of Elrond's house with something very like regret, but that did not make the enduring of this journey any easier.

Thinking about him made it easier, though, and she had much time for thinking. Sometimes the memory of a kiss or a caress felt so real that it made her skin tingle. At these times she indulged her fantasy, and let herself believe that he was thinking of her too. She would gaze vacantly at the horizon, seeing not the slowly changing landscape, but his face.

And the truth was, she did not really regret leaving Rivendell, in spite of its comforts. The elves were gracious hosts, beautiful to look at and listen to, and very wise and superior. A little too superior, perhaps. For though they had lived long and seen much, she had also heard many of them talk of leaving. Now that things in this world were getting dark and dangerous, many of them were traveling west, to sail away. She knew enough elvish now to pick up this much, and a small, defiant voice inside her whispered, "cowards."

Oh, she did not fool herself; if she had such an option open to her, she could not say that she would refuse to run far from impending war. But she wrapped herself in the self-righteousness of one who has no choice, and reflected on the actions of one who did have a choice.

For Legolas could have run as well, he could take the ship with others of his kind, and live in what was, apparently, a sort of paradise. But he did not. He did not flee the gathering darkness, but marched boldly into it, and her heart swelled with pride, and love.

And despair.

He had always sounded so supremely confident when he assured her they would not fail, so that she could not help but believe him, at least when he was by her side to reassure her. But he had always been so very, very careful to avoid saying what she most wanted to hear - that he would come back to her. If he thought he would come back, why would he not say so, with the same arrogant assurance that he said the quest would not fail? Because he did not expect to come back. He had never said so, but she had felt his tension whenever she tried to speak of the future, she had watched him look into the distance as if he saw his own doom. She had heard him whispering to her in the dead of night, when he thought she was asleep. He was telling her goodbye.

And truth be told, she had done much the same thing.  Not lied to him; she had never spoken a falsehood, but nor had she been entirely honest.  Just as he had never specifically said that he did not expect to return to her, she had never told him that she would stay in Rivendell.  She had simply told him that she would be safe; to tell him any more would simply add worry where there was worry enough.  Legolas had many more important matters to occupy his mind than where she spent her time.  And despite his assurances to the contrary, Isobel knew that she would be better off among her own people.  Among men.  But she felt her misdirection to be unimportant; she had kept her word, after all.  She would remain safe.

As safe as anyone could be these days. Isobel had no concept of massive battles and huge armies; all she knew of the darkness was what she herself had seen. Her entire household washed away in an unstoppable tide of hate and death. How could anyone withstand that? Elves spoke of battles of old when evil was defeated, of great alliances between the peoples. But the elves were leaving. There would be no more alliances.

As the journey wore on, she grew used to the discomforts, and used to the despair. This was the right decision. She smiled, remembering what now seemed like naiveté in her voice as she teased him, saying she should come with him. It had not taken her long to decide that this was not such a joke after all. He believed that he was going to his own death. And when darkness covered the earth, she would know that he was dead, and that the quest had failed. Should she wait, in the deceptive security of Rivendell? No, it would simply delay the inevitable. Better to make a quick end, to be one of the first to fall, rather than linger, waiting, knowing.

And would her death be the end of the lingering?  Sometimes she awoke in the night with those thoughts, so choked with fear that she could not draw breath.  Would his death release her from her vow at last, or would her soul be reborn, again and again, searching fruitlessly for the one that would never come for her?

But to think on these fears for too long was folly. And so she shifted uncomfortably on her horse, and tried to turn her mind away from the darkness, tried to concentrate on the memories. Of blue eyes glittering with amusement, of gentle smiles, and strong arms around her. She hugged the memories close, for that was all she had left.