The waves rolled in with the hush of memory, folding over the grey stones of the shore in a rhythm older than any language. Somewhere behind you, gulls cried low over the docks at Mithlond, but the sound was distant—like something remembered from a dream, not quite real. Your cloak was heavy with sea-mist. The salt hung in the air like a promise half-spoken. And beside you, silent and unmoving, stood Legolas.

He had not spoken for a long while.

You both watched the ships. White sails rising like ghosts against the horizon. No banners, no farewells. Only light, and the long stretch of water leading West. To lands you could not see. Lands you would never walk.

“They go with peace,” he said at last, voice low. “With sorrow, too, but peace most of all.”

You turned toward him then, slowly, because you already knew the question was coming. It had lived in the space between you for weeks now, swelling like the tide.

“Will you go?” Your voice came out smaller than you intended. A mortal question. Heavy with time.

Legolas did not look at you at first. His gaze lingered on the last ship’s pale sail until it became a star on the sea. Then, finally, his eyes found yours—and the full weight of centuries settled into his silence.

“I will not,” he said. “Not while you are in this world.”

You opened your mouth to argue—to say he must go, that you’d never forgive yourself if he stayed for your sake—but he reached for your hand before the words could come. His fingers, long and calloused, closed around yours with reverence. Like holding the last leaf of a dying tree.

“I have watched mountains fall,” he murmured. “I have walked through forests that no longer remember their names. And still, nothing has moved me like the way your breath catches when you laugh. Or the way your hands shake when you try to hide your fear.”

His other hand lifted, brushing the side of your face with aching gentleness. He looked at you as if trying to memorize every line, every freckle, every tiny crack in your armor.

“I will stay,” he said again. “For as long as you breathe. And when you do not—” His voice faltered, just slightly. “—I will carry your name across the sea and speak it to the stars.”

Your chest ached in the way only love and endings can make it ache. There was no answer that felt large enough. No vow that could reach that far.

But you leaned forward, and rested your brow against his. And he closed his eyes—not in pain, but in peace. A fragile, precious peace.

The wind shifted. The sea kept moving. And still, he stayed.