Legolas sat in his chair, rocking back and forth, mumbling in Elven, tears rolling down his cheeks.
It had happened.
He hadn't said goodbye, and it had happened. He thought back, remembering all the good times. All the happy days of being together. All the joy, all the happiness. And then the argument. It had been a long day and he had been tierd. He had started to yell. Then he left with the fellowship, and they hadn't spoken scince.
And now the letter. He pounded his fist on the piece of parchment.
"NO!" He screamed in anguish, the pain he felt was undescribeable. Unbearable. He got up on shakey feet, and moved toward his bed, leaving behind to pieces of parchment. One was the letter, the other, a picture. A picture of his love. His lost love. His dead love. Legolas fell onto his bead, pulled the blankets firmly over his head, and slept. And with his sleep came dreams, dreams of death and love, dreams of happiness and sadness. Dreams of the only woman he had ever loved.