Disclaimer: If I wish to own LOTR, it means I do not possess it, which means it was of course never mine, for who would give away the rights to such a work of art?

Author Notes: Same as before…I am Chilean so I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes made on this story.

It was a thing of the moment; I would appreciate any comments on a Review, please. Could become more, it depends, if anyone likes it… sure…

Echoes in the Passageways
By Yours Truly

Summer heat invaded the castle of Gondor, symbol of human strength and royalty restored. While the Steward's family had inhabited it for generations, dust and age hung around it as if the building itself had been waiting in mourning for years. Blood had once been shed upon its halls and that blood had never been forgotten.

Gazing with interest upon the tapestries that hung on the walls, narrating the history of a race that was destined to grow on the years to come under the noble gaze of the man who had come to take what was rightfully his, a silent figure seemed entranced by a particular piece. His wandering steps, which had been traveling through the castle, stopped cold at the image that greeted him on the wall, and blue eyes widened in remembrance and surprise.

A noble man's painting hung on the wall, a woman at his side. His clothing the one of Royalty and her tiara simple yet noticeable, their expression gentle yet regal enough to be recognized.

For those two had once been the King and Queen of Gondor, great on their time on this earth and fondly remembered.

Yes, the silent figure remembered it well, those times. Long ago when peace had been upon these lands there was once a time when the shadow he had faced had seemed nothing but a distant ghost, and to the humans that lived in here they were nothing but their great-grandfather's tales, told in nights of Winter to 'entertain the younglings'.

A bitter laugh escaped the figure's lips, its tone so cold it would have made those who knew him flinch. Nothing but tales, he had once thought so too, read about the happenings in old books stored away in cobweb filled spaces of the libraries he visited upon his own home, or upon a friend's.

He remembered his curiosity enlightened, remembered the steps of a young one that ran to his father's studio and jumped upon his lap, eager eyes staring deep into the familiar ones of his sire. He remembered the words leaving his lips in a hurry, the doubt burning in his mind. His father's eyes had gone cold then, when he had asked, and the memory was no longer a merry one after that.

He was told of the death of his own family at the hands of what he had believed a lie, and the books had suddenly been frightening in his young mind. He had apologized for asking, even while he knew his father did not expect him to, and the grief that had settled upon his sire's features was replaced by some surprise and the gentle look he was used to seeing upon it. But he had run back to the library too fast to hear his next words.

His eyes had re-read the story, and what he had before found interesting now seemed heartless and cold; mean and too dark to be real, yet when he had looked up to see the portrait of his ancestor, now long gone from this land, he understood that it had been true. And it had marked his family with his passing. The story had fascinated his senses, yet a sense of grief accompanied it from then on. He had had a dream that night, of himself intertwined in the story of the trinket that has caused so much heartache.

He had known, from then on, that his fate would be involved in the history of Middle-Earth, and suddenly his young eyes had lost some of its light in silent question to the stars of when the day would come, when darkness so great would threaten them all.

It had not come for many a year, and when the events that lead to it came to pass he had been prepared, having trained in weaponry for the rest of his life. Still somewhat a child to some of his kin, he went ahead on the quest he had anticipated for such a long time.

And they had prevailed; he had avenged the soul of his ancestor by helping in the defeat of the very thing that caused so much anguish upon the Halls at his own home and all through the known land.

Now, weeks later he still dwelt in this place, in silence and remembrance, his eyes taking in the other part of the story of those times when he had been young and in ignorant bliss. The portrait of the King and Queen of Gondor brought upon him scenes of a past long ago lost, of a gentle human face smiling at him in friendly respect, when the King had visited his lands on a state matter. The memories were fond ones of the glowing face of the Queen as she caressed the belly where her child would grow, and the proud face of the King as he watched his family. His final memory was a heavy hand on his shoulder in a sign of farewell, as their horses rode away fast towards their Kingdom.

Although the King and Queen of Gondor lived years after that memory, he never saw them again.

Muffled steps on the corridor, alerted the silent figure of the approaching of someone, and the pattern of breathing immediately told him who it was that came. Refusing to give up on his memories yet, he never took his eyes off the portrait as finally the other being stood beside him, admiring the same paint with grief and dim memories of his own.

"What are you doing so far into the castle?" The new arrival's voice called softly, his voice questioning instead of commanding, as would have been expected from the man that spoke.
"Remembering" came the melodious answer that broke the long kept silence of the figure
"You knew them?"
"Briefly…I have told you before"
"Aye, you have…would you mind telling me again?"

A gentle smile and friendly eyes no longer lost in days past turned to the man, and a nod accompanied the figure's answer. "Of course not, my friend…lead the way"

And Aragorn led Legolas towards the gardens, eager to hear even the smallest of images his friend had of his lost parents.

The blood shed upon this halls had not been forgotten, yet the ghosts of the past were willing to wait, for this moment of friendship would not go interrupted.

The End

…Or maybe not. I'm not sure yet. Please R&R and tell me what you think.

More Author Notes:

For those of you who don't know what I was talking about on the story, it is simple:

Legolas father is Thranduil who fought in the Last alliance next to his own father (and Legolas' grandfather) Oropher; who was slain in battle.

So in short, Legolas' family was intertwined with the story of the Ring of Power, and his lost ancestor was his grandfather, Oropher, slaughtered in the Last Alliance.

And this…only for the really…really…slow readers (in lack of a better, PG deserving, word):

Legolas was the 'silent figure'; he was remembering his own childhood when he discovered the story of the Ring in a book and asked his father, Thranduil, who in return told him of the death of his grandfather in the war Legolas had been reading about. He also remembered Aragorn's parents (Arathorn and his wife) while they were still alive.

Aragorn came in and asked Legolas to tell him about his parents, the elf agreed, and there is something else in the castle that didn't wish to interrupt the scene, but while I am not telling what it is, it's there, and if you're interested, please Review…^^ (Aren't I obvious? :))