Legolas (Orlando Bloom) & OFC (Kate Bosworth)
Warning(s): separation from family, major canonical character death
The roar that echoed through the stone halls of Moria sent fear up each souls’ spine. Of course the foul creatures surrounding the fellowship had no souls, nonetheless it sent them crawling the walls and any place that seemed secure.
The young hobbits held their breath, as did the men and the dwarf. Gandalf closed his eyes, perhaps dreading what was to come next. The elven prince was astonished by the sound as well.
However none reacted as their tenth companion. Who walked straight for the sound, swinging her swords in a circular motion. For this she-elf knew what had made the sound.
“Adira,” Legolas called. She ignored her comrade and proceeded to walk towards the sound. “You reckless girl! Come back here, you shall get yourself killed,” the grey wizard whispered in a tone that put fear in the hearts of those around him, for they knew his words to be true.
She continued down her path. Only pausing to wipe of the cool sweat from her brow. “You know I cannot, old friend,” she said turning around. The lines beneath her eyes seem to deepen with age. She no longer looked as the young Vanyarin elf that had been lost after the Great Battle.
She was a grown she-elf, the finest in all of Middle-earth. And even now with her disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, and smell of Goblin blood she still managed to look fearless.
“A Balrog killed my sister while I did nothing. I stood their hidden behind the tree line and watched her burn; I could do nothing but watch her burn. I shall not let the same fate befall you all,” she said. Her eyes searched her companions for any sign of opposition.
There was nothing any of them could have done to stop her. Not Aragon, the ranger that she swore to protect on the eve of his birth. Or Gandalf, the Istar that had helped her find herself in dark times. Not her newly acquainted companions who were scared to their wits, the Balrog’s cry forever echoed in their minds. Not even Legolas her elven friend who expression was of pure distress.
She walks over to Aragon and places her hand on his head and smiles. “ I remember when I first laid eyes on you it was years after your birth and you were not afraid and I know you will not be afraid now that you are on this quest. I pledged to protect you Aragon and I am,” she leaned into his ear and whispered in her native tongue to follow his heart. She kissed his forehead softly, as a mother would her child and let his shoulder go.
Adira walked over to Legolas and took his hands into her own. She did not know what to say to her friend that had always treated her with nothing with kindness.
When she found the courage to speak and the words to say she looked him in the eye and began her farewell. “Boe i ‘wên. Sevir maur edraith. Odulen an dhen eliad,” she paused her and squeezed his hands,“ Mellonamin lle naa belegohtar, uuma dela. Noro lim. Nover Legolas.” [It is necessary I leave. They need saving. I’m here to help you out. My friend you’re a mighty warrior, don’t worry. Run fast. Farewell Legolas.]
She gave him a smile, and slowly moved her hands away. Her Sindarin was not correct but he did not care. Adira’s hands shook and twitched a bit. Her eyes became glassy; she did not blink or flinch. Even in the face of death she was brave. He admired her for that.
“I shall not let you,” he says softly and grabs a hold of the hand placed over her sword.
“Neither shall I, not when you have come far,” Gandalf said pushing Legolas and Aragon aside. “Now we must hurry before the Balrog appears.” He began pushing her farther on with the rest of the Fellowship.
They ran until they reached the bridge, she had held Legolas’s hand and jumped over with a hobbit on her hip. And she had lived to fight another day.
But the guilt overcomes her once they exit the ancient kingdom of Moria. Her cries did not escape her lips, she formed the shapes of her cries with her lips, her body trembled but she did not scream. Her tears fell from her eyes quickly and it took both men and the elf to restrain her from going back into the mountain.
She had swung her blade at him, threatened to disfigure the prince if he did not let her go. She had begged him to let her go back. His heart ached at the cries that escaped her lips once they had reached a safe distance. Even as the men remarked her volume was too loud she did not stop, she did not get up from the ground. So the prince had to carry her to their destination.
She cursed herself again and again, blamed herself for his death. The pain did not leave her when they reached Lothlórien. She sat quietly by herself and when the elf came near her she did not acknowledge his presence.
And as she sang a song for their fallen friend in her native tongue, dressed in the rich cloth of the high elves, he could not help but feel relief that she had not walked to her death.
Once they leave Lothlórien she does not speak to her companions, perhaps the guilt shall keep her shunned out for the rest of her immortal life. It is not until they are gathering firewood just before dusk that she speaks, “how befitting that the brooch is a green leaf.” He laughs, and so does she. It’s the good hearty laugh he thought would have been lost forever.
“How befitting that the lost Vanyarin princess does not speak Sindarin.” She smiles, and if she smiles the rest of the night, he does not say.
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
stormborns
amandla
