I always wanted to hear more about what happened to Gimli and Legolas, and Aragorn and Arwen, after the ending of “The Return of the King”. I tried to respect the spirit of the book, and not err too much in distances and timing. The characters (or most of them), places and dates are taken from Prof. Tolkien’s writings and of course belong to his estate; their encounters and adventures are my own invention and intellectual property.
I’ve revised this a bit, correcting grammatical and one or two story mistakes. Hope y’all still like it.

The Last of the Fellowship

I – The Cry of the Seagull

It was the dawn of an early autumn day in the Year 120 of the Fourth Age, the year 1541 of Shire reckoning. The sun sent his first, tentative rays across the mountain range once known as Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow, which now bore the name of Ered Lain, Free Mountains. Gradually, the grey mists of the early morning dissolved, revealing the gentle beauty of South Ithilien as it lay stretched out between the mountains and the meandering river far below.

On a hillside, a group of young trees swayed slightly to and fro in the cool morning breeze. Only one of the willowy silhouettes did not move but stood perfectly still. It was a tall Elf, watching the sunrise from clear blue eyes as the wind gently played with his long hair. His slim figure was clad in garments of silvery green, simple in their elegance, which did not reveal anything about his status. Yet there was an air about him that would have set him apart from his surroundings anywhere. It was a mixture of cheerfulness and sadness in his eyes, eyes which had seen terrors that few of his fair kindred had had to face. This was Legolas, son of King Thranduil of the woodland realm of Mirkwood, which had been given its old name of Eryn Lasgalen – Greenwood – again after the fall of the Dark Lord Sauron.

When Aragorn son of Arathorn had ascended the throne of Gondor and had been crowned as King Elessar, Legolas, one of the legendary Fellowship of the Ring, had brought a fair number of his kindred from Greenwood to South Ithilien which, under their gentle care, had become once again the fairest country of the west-lands. Long and lovingly the Elves had laboured to restore the ravaged country to its former beauty, healing the wounds that the long years of Sauron’s terror had inflicted upon every living thing.

The Elves were respected throughout the realm of Elessar; yet the old King had long since outlived all the men who had fought alongside him on the Field of Cormallen, and the common knowledge of races other than that of mortal man was diminished. Elves, dwarves and hobbits were becoming a matter of folklore and legends in Rohan and even in Rhovanion, although it was scant years since Thranduil’s people had set sail for the West. Now South Ithilien was the last dwelling-place of the Firstborn in Middle-earth. The knowledge that this, too, was only a temporary refuge lay darkly on Legolas’s usually sunny spirit, for he had formed a deep bond not only with this land but also, even more so, with some of its inhabitants.

For the Elf, the time since Sauron’s downfall had been short compared to the many centuries he had walked in the forests of Middle-earth. And yet he knew that in these last one hundred and twenty years more changes had been brought to the world, and to the Elves in particular, than in his entire life-span. Most of his immortal race had left Middle-earth when the Lady Galadriel had sailed to the Undying Lands from the Grey Havens after the One Ring had been destroyed and thus the strength of all the other rings of power, including those of the Elven lords, had diminished. Those Elves that still remained with Legolas in the forests of South Ithilien had withdrawn more and more from the perception of humans. Men were taking over the rule of Middle-earth.

Before he had set out from Rivendell on the quest to destroy the One Ring, Legolas had not had many dealings with men, and none with dwarves or hobbits. But the perilous journeys, and the losses the Fellowship had suffered, had left a deep mark on his spirit. Most of all, his unlikely friendship with Gimli the Dwarf had changed him more profoundly than his slightly aloof yet always cheerful demeanour betrayed.

The dwarves, too, were retreating into realms hidden from men. Gimli’s rule of the Glittering Caves at Helm’s Deep went unnoticed by all save the oldest of men living in Rohan, since the refuge of the Deep had not been sought since the days of King Théoden and the mighty battle against the evil forces of Saruman, the White Wizard. It seemed that the wonder of the beautiful caves of Aglarond had all but passed from the knowledge of the Rohirrim.

Legolas’s face was inscrutable as he stood motionless, watching the world awaken. Suddenly, the sharp cry of a seagull pierced the tranquillity of the young day. The Elf stirred and looked up, shielding his eyes with a slender hand. A beautiful, silver-grey seagull was circling in the sky above. It was much bigger than the ordinary seagulls that followed the ships on the river Anduin with their shrieking, hoping to make a meal of the fishermen’s spoils. The bird came swooping down and settled on Legolas’s outstretched arm, flapping its huge wings. The Elf reached out and gently took a shimmering leaf from the seagull’s beak. It was beautiful, golden of colour, seemingly insubstantial in its delicacy yet sparkling with life.

Legolas looked down at the leaf in his hand for a long time in silence. Then, lifting his head, he smiled wistfully at the seagull. “Have you come to remind me of the Sun?” he asked softly. The bird cocked its head to one side and eyed him attentively. Then it stretched its beautiful wings and with a loud cry lifted off again.

Legolas’s gaze followed the seagull as it sailed down the hillside towards the river. The old yearning which had been dozing in his heart in a fitful slumber for more than a century now was calling to him again, stronger than ever. His thoughts wandered to Pelargir where he had first heard that fateful sound, when he had come to understand the meaning of the words of the Lady Galadriel.

Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.

Conflicting emotions flickered across the fair face that looked so young, yet for a moment betrayed an immense weariness, showing the burden of millennia. The bright light of the sun which had by now conquered the day could not dispel the sense of foreboding in Legolas’s heart, and he knew that events which had long and patiently been waiting were preparing to happen.

When Legolas returned to the green halls in the beechwood forest that was the home of his people, two men fitted in the uniforms of the Guard of the Citadel of Minas Tirith were waiting for him. They bowed, and Legolas gave a courteous nod in reply, accepting a parchment which one of the men held out to him. “A message from King Elessar, my lord.”

Legolas unfolded the parchment. His mien revealed no visible reaction as he read the letter, and yet those who stood nearby could feel the change in him, like the change in the weather on the first day the autumn chill makes itself felt in the air. He carefully folded the parchment again and looked at the King’s messenger.

“I thank you,” he said quietly. “I will come with you.” The man bowed slightly, and resumed his waiting position next to his companion.

Legolas gestured to an Elf standing close by. “Come, Fingalas. I want to take counsel with you before I go to Minas Tirith,” he said as he turned to enter the shadow of the leaves which were still of a deep, fresh green despite the time of year. Fingalas fell in step with him. The likeness of his lithe frame and fair face to that of Legolas indicated a close relation between the two; only his eyes were of a startling green colour rather than the other Elf’s grey-blue.

“Tíro, gwanur nîn.”(1) Legolas opened his palm to reveal the golden leaf which the seagull had brought him. Fingalas’s eyes widened, and he stopped in his tracks. “How did you come by this?” he marvelled. “It looks like mallorn, but I have never seen the like of it before. Is it from Lórien?”

Legolas shook his head. “No. This is indeed a mallorn leaf, but not even in the Golden Woods were there ever trees that bear leaves like this.” He paused and closed his hand again around the fine leaf. Fingalas looked at him with sudden comprehension. Legolas nodded slowly.

“Send word to the shipwrights.”

(1) Tíro, gwanur nîn = Look, my brother.