This is a re-post of my original chapter. I have modified it slightly, hopefully for the best. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R Tolkien, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema and their associates. I am making no money from this; it is just a wonderful way for me to write for an audience with room for me to improve upon my skills/technique through their comments and criticisms.
Cymbeline was written by William Shakespeare (c. 1609) and belongs to him, not me.
Rating: Most likely R, although some may argue it PG-13.
For my author's note please see the bottom of this post.
Fear No More the Heat O' Th' Sun
Golden sunlight streamed in slanted shapes upon a nil used scarlet armchair. Particles of dust, suspended in the air, bathed in the warmth of the light. Legolas looked towards the sunlight, envy stirring in his eyes. If only he could move his bed with the sun... no. It only shone through the windows of his room in the late afternoon. He'd watched it make its slow progress across the floor, never once having the kind will to grace the bed where he lay.
It was near dusk now, judging by the color of the sunlight. Turning his head he strained his eyes in an attempt to see outside. The view that greeted him was the same as the last time he'd looked. All he could see was the pale blue of the sky. There were no trees outside to view anyway- not in this stone city of Men.
Closing his eyes, he believed he could hear the soft rustling leaves of the trees greeting him as he and his steed approached. He'd close his eyes and let their sweet whispers blow gently across his face. The dark emerald of the pines below him brought a comfort none could understand save those who were brethren of trees. The sun would set there, across on that distant ridge. He'd watch it slowly sink while the trees spoke of rains to come. He was at peace.
The creaking of the door being opened drew the prince out of his mind and into the present. Consciously feeling the effort, he turned his heavy head towards the healer.
The Elf stepped forward, pain etched into the gravity of his face. He did not wish to speak the words he must. Yet it did not matter. Legolas already knew. He'd known for some time now. He observed the being before him with an abstract detachedness. The prince knew the other was one of the last Elves on these shores; he'd stayed to help any of his kind still remaining.
The elder Elf swallowed hard, red seen in his black hair as he stepped into the room, the sun momentarily haloing his head.
Legolas could feel himself breathe deeply and blink slowly. He knew his pallid appearance must disturb the elder Elf. Dark circles under his eyes, the act of breathing becoming an effort.
The dark-haired Elf's lips parted slightly, crooked lower teeth seen for a moment before the mouth closed once more. Then it came.
"Legolas, you are dying."
Author's Note: While I was listening to Loreena McKennitt's hauntingly spiritual "Cymbeline" I was overcome with a sense of morbid beauty. This story easily flowed from my hands. As one artist inspires another (Cymbeline is a play by William Shakespeare) so have I been inspired. It was strange, writing this- I was so driven that even at one point when I'd burned my fingers some will within me drove me to continue writing through the great pain it caused. I always write things out by hand first- it makes the first composition much higher quality, I believe. So here is my end product: a story I cannot fully account for, yet it is this mystery that enchants me.