Legolas had always wondered at the beauty of the stars. He fancied that in the beginning of time while the world was still being shaped by the Valar, Elbereth had run a sharp needle with silver thread through the dark fabric of the sky and lovingly embroidered the beloved lights of the night.

The world was so peaceful. The hours hovered between the past day and the one forthcoming. Legolas breathed in deeply and exhaled. His hand rested lightly on the cool railing and his fingers drummed to an imaginary rhythm. He reflected on how his grief had dissipated. He had woken from the first real sleep he had had in days to find the dull ache that had been present in his heart gone and his thoughts clearer. How or why, he could not remember. But somehow, he could not rid himself of the feeling that perhaps it had been someone's doing other than Aragorn. His grief had been great he knew. He got the sensation that there was some greater power at work.

Whatever the case, he was thankful. He poured forth his gratitude into words and lifted his fair voice to the air. And the elf imagined that somewhere, his savior heard and smiled with satisfaction.

"For though Olorin, one of the maiar,  loved the Elves, he walked among them unseen, or in form as one of them, and they did not know whence came the fair visions or the promptings of wisdom that he put into their hearts. In later days, he was the friend of all the children of Iluvatar, and took pity on their sorrows; and those who listened to him awoke from despair and put away their imaginations of darkness."

- -The Silmarillion : Valaquenta [Of the Maiar]



I hope that cleared up some confusion? Anyway, tell me what you think of this story on the whole!!

Sneak Peak at my next fic!

The Core of the Stone

The clocked figure swung the knife downwards over the elf's heart. Aragorn's eyes widened in horror and he struggled valiantly against his captors. The tip of the weapon stopped a hairs width above the elf's body. Every ragged rise and fall of the unconscious elf touched the pinnacle of the sharp blade.

Aragorn could almost imagine the feral grin plastered on the face of the man before him. Legolas gave a small groan where he lay on the ground…


He was silenced by a kick to his ribs. Hope was hard to hold on to when ones grip was so slippery with spilled blood.