Spring Awakening - Nearing Midnight (romantic novels in english txt) 📗

Short A/N: Hello everyone; this is my first time posting here on BookRix. :P This is just the beginning of my humble little LOTR fanfic. This was originally posted on Fanfiction, but I decided to show it on here to any that may be interested. Enjoy, and please comment if you liked it.

Chapter One: Minas Tirith

The walls of the White City gleamed in the final rays of the dying sun. It had been a year since the War of the Ring, and with the lands finally cleansed of evil, the last kingdoms of the Free Peoples were thriving.  

Winter had finally loosed its cold clutches over the land and spring had settled over Middle-earth. With the smell of rich earth in the air and the sight of green slowly spreading over the once sleeping lands, the thrill of new life seemed to set a sense of optimism into the air. 

The Anduin’s still surface shone brightly in the half-light, the gleaming waters reflecting the blue sky. The Great River snaked its way through Gondor, only to disappear far into the western horizon.

But, not all the Good People of Arda were relishing in the sunset of the new spring day.

A lone, hooded figure sat idly on the walls of Minas Tirith, facing outwards as his legs dangled over the edge. A slender hand shaded his deep eyes as he gazed into the distance, seeing things that mortals would fail to see, hearing things that mortals would never perceive, and enduring things that mortals should never have to endure.

This elf had never experienced such mental agony in his nearly three thousand years of existence. Only elven eyes could spot the white birds that swooped at the very edge of his vision. Half-dreaming in his daze, it seemed to the elf that the gulls cried out to him, begging him to come to the Sea.

The Sea, oh, the Sea! How he longed to stand on those white shores once more, to soothe his mind and lull his soul into bliss. How he longed to sail in those churning waters, racing with the gulls as he, too, disappeared into the West.

Raising his voice to a quiet murmur, not loud enough to disturb others but loud enough for his own ears, the elf sang softly.

“To the Sea, to the Sea! the white gulls are crying,

The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying,

West, west away, the round sun is falling

Gray ship, gray ship, do you hear them calling,

The voices of my people that have gone before me?”

Alas it was the dreaded cuivëar, the sea-longing, which lingered in the depths of the hearts of every elf but was perilous to stir. This incurable illness left only two choices; to sail, or to die.

There was no way he was going to sail – it would be such a cowardly thing to do, to just drop everything and bolt. There was no way he was going to leave all his friends who were doomed to remain in Middle-earth.

And yet… he did not want to die. The Firstborn had been blessed with the gift – or curse? – of immortality, and could not die unless they were killed by the sword, grief, or longing. The lull of the Sea would wrap him into a cocoon of darkness, and bury him so deep into his despairing thoughts until no light could pierce his consciousness. To die of want of the sea, to suffer his last days in torture, enslaved by darkness… he did not want that.

He had a choice; to leave all the wonders of Middle-earth, to leave his friends and family, and live an eternal life in the Undying Lands throughout all the Ages of the world alone, or to stay behind while everyone else disappeared into the past, and watch as he, too, faded into air.

No one was there to comfort the elf in his silent suffering.

Legolas sighed and averted his eyes from the Sea, barely noticing how stiff he had become during the long hours he had sat on the wall.

He could feel the wind whipping through his hair as the sun finally left the heavens, sinking down beneath the clouds and disappearing into the horizon, leaving a brilliant vermilion sky in its wake. Yet, for some reason it did not seem quite as bright to him as it had one year ago.

Legolas slipped easily off the wall and headed into the Citadel, setting himself next to a window and idly watching the sun fade and the moon rise. It seemed as if his gloomy thoughts brightened and rose with the moon as he thought of what would take place that very night.

He gazed out at the darkened twilight, watching the stars blink and shine through the clouds.

Tonight, he thought, will be a good night.

But of course, he added to himself wryly, we need to wait for the others until we start the journey.

He sighed again, but his spirits had lifted. He and King Aragorn had been planning this well-deserved trip ever since the Gondorian King’s coronation and marriage.

He broke out of his musings as the presence of some being tugged at the edge of the senses. He furrowed his brow slightly, turning around as his hand strayed towards his quiver, but relaxed when he saw it was only one of the King’s servants. I am too wary these days.

“My lord?” the servant asked tentatively. Legolas realized he was still clutching his bow. He released his weapon, smiling to show that he meant no harm. The servant bowed and continued. “My master summons you to the Courtyard. The others have arrived.”

Legolas was up and hurrying down the hall when the servant barely finished his sentence, calling his thanks as he stepped quickly out to the Courtyard.

Standing in the middle of the Courtyard near the White Tree were seven figures, one tall and five short. As the elf entered the Courtyard, four of the said short figures ran towards him and threw themselves at him with such eagerness that Legolas staggered and fell.

“Mister Legolas!” A very familiar halfling beamed down at him, and the elf immediately recognized the kind face of Sam; the gardener seemed to have greatly recovered from his struggles during the War.

Legolas smiled. “Well met, Master Samwise! I am surprised; you came earlier than I expected.”

“Of course we came early,” another one of the hobbits, Merry, protested, feigning hurt. “We wouldn’t pass up on such an adventure, with you and Strider and all the others, would we, Pippin?”

Pippin nodded, untangling himself from Legolas’s cloak before sheepishly handing it to the elf and helping him up.

Sam prodded Legolas in the stomach, making a face. “I wager you’re much thinner than when I last saw you, begging your pardon.”

“And why are you so pale?” Frodo looked up at the elf.   

“Now, I’m sure Legolas is fine. Why don’t you go help Aragorn with the horses, so we can be off sooner?”

Legolas recognized the gruff deep voice, virtually unchanged since he last heard it. He knelt down so he was eye-level with Gimli, pulling him, too, into an embrace.

“It has been long, mellonnîn,” Legolas greeted his old friend, straightening.

“Aye,” Gimli answered, a merry twinkle in his dark eyes. “Now that I see them again, I pray they will not be as wearisome as they were during our quest.”

Legolas chuckled. “Now to think of it, I remember a certain dwarf who was riding behind me on the back of a horse, complaining the whole time during our ride through Rohan.”  

Gimli scowled playfully. “It’s not my fault that dratted, prissy excuse for a horse of yours was being so troublesome.”

Legolas opened his mouth for a scathing retort, only to be quieted with a hand resting on his shoulder. Beholding the gray eyes of Gandalf, Legolas lowered his head in respect to the wizard.

“We meet again, young prince,” Gandalf greeted, smiling at the elf.

“I trust this journey to be peaceful,” Legolas answered, stepping backwards. His eyes scanned the Company; but the one individual he sought was not there. Turning aside, he headed towards the stables of Minas Tirith in search of his steed and his best friend.

-

The soft nickering of horses met his ears as the elf stepped silently into the stables. Legolas smiled faintly as he recognized the soft voice of his friend as he sang to his horse, Roheryn.

At a quiet murmur of greeting from Legolas, the King of Gondor immediately turned around, eyes sparking in sudden joy.

“Legolas, gwanur nîn!” The elf soon found himself all but crushed in Aragorn’s ecstatic embrace. The Sinda grunted slightly, arms pushing feebly at his friend’s shoulders in the attempt to dislodge him. “Aragorn… ‘tis a great pleasure meeting you again, my friend… Aragorn, I can’t breathe.”

With a small chuckle the King released him, but his mirth soon ceased as he gave his friend a long look. Taking in the unusual pallor, the slight droop of the usually proud shoulders, and the troubled look in his eyes, Aragorn grimaced.

He lowered his voice slightly, though nobody else was around. “How has the sea-longing been of late?”

“It has been manageable,” Legolas turned around quickly, searching for his horse’s stall. He did not want to make his friend worry about him; this journey they were about to set out on was supposed to be a rest for the King’s mind.

Aragorn said nothing more, much to the elf’s relief, but instead led his friend to Arod, who had been standing patiently in his stall. Legolas removed his horse’s halter and fed him some oats, smiling when he could practically hear his father’s voice scolding him on how he spoiled his ‘pets’.

“This will be a fine night,” Aragorn remarked, wanting to break the tension that had stretched in between them.

“Yes,” Legolas agreed, picking up his pack where it had been resting in the straw, slinging it over his shoulders. “We should do it each year, as a celebration of our success.”

“We should see how this journey goes first,” Aragorn led his horse, Brego, from his stall, leading him out into the cool night air.

“Though no doubt the halflings are excited,” Legolas smirked. Even from the stables, the hobbits’ whooping could be heard loud and clear as they rode back towards the foot of the Courtyard.

The Fellowship stood atop a hill, the White City glowing in the half-light not far behind them. From where he sat, it seemed to the eyes of Legolas that the Fields of Pelennor below them were bathed in starlight. The beautiful, moon-washed terrain was a welcome exchange for the scene of carnage that had awaited them after the Battle of Pelennor Fields.

“This will be a journey to remember,” Aragorn’s voice broke the silence.

“Aye, indeed it will,” Gimli replied. He shifted restlessly from where he sat behind Legolas on Arod, adding irritably, “It would be more pleasant if I could use my own legs than ride upon this blasted horse…”

Legolas smiled, then suddenly urged Arod into a canter down the hill, earning a startled cry from Gimli.

“Come, King of Gondor!” Legolas called to Aragorn. “I challenge you to a race! Which horse has the swiftest feet between the two of us?”

“I will give you no satisfaction in winning, elf!” answered Aragorn, galloping after the elf.

Gandalf watched this brief display of playfulness, before shaking his head and muttering, “Children…”

He urged Shadowfax after them, with the hobbits on their ponies following behind. The Fellowship blended in with the shadows of Pelennor as they disappeared into the night.

---

Unknown to the Company, strange ghost-like figures crouched in the shadows; indeed, they seemed more akin to the spirits of the dead than living creatures.

Cold yellow eyes blinked open, thinly-concealed menace bittering the gaze. But even if any other being had beheld them, they would’ve wondered at it; for as soon as the chill moonlight