ELDARION ... @mindsmade
In Amon Firith it seems too often that time -- in other places so unchanging in its steady tread onwards -- pauses to rest amidst the roses in the gardens, or to sit upon a smooth carved bench beneath the trees. Elves measure not the days, nor the hours, nor the minutes of their lives, for they are innumerable; for the first time, perhaps, the fair folk of Middle-earth can sense that their time grows ever shorter, and yet
In Amon Firith it seems too often that time stops altogether, and so Legolas’ rare reminders of the passing years come at moments like these: when he has returned to Minas Tirith and is playing strategy games with the son of an old friend ( now old himself, though Legolas does what he must to pretend Aragorn’s days are not numbered ).
He suspects Eldarion may win.
Truth be told, he is certain Eldarion will win.
Legolas frowns delicately at the board, twisting a long strand of loose hair between his fingers. “Are you certain that is a valid move?” His frown deepens slightly. Eldarion’s pawn sits precariously close to his queen. “I suspect you know a different version than I----”