Mist on the Water

Her father had not wavered his decision, no matter how she had begged and pleaded for his mercy. His coldness had grown in the previous years, in the event of his wife, her mother's, death. He would simply not listen no matter what she had threatened, no matter if the threats were true or dramatically composed. It was becoming morbidly evident that he no longer cared for his only child, and her happiness was lastly on his mind, if at all.

She did not know how to tell Legolas of the unwanted arrangement, too afraid to break his heart, too deep in the destruction of her own. There simply were no words to express the desperation climbing within her mind, and the more she thought of a way out, she soon realized that either way her body would be destroyed in the process.

Legolas was not a man, which was the greatest issue in her father's mind, but an Elf. He was an immortal being, beautiful, and knowledgeable to the world around him. She had loved him as soon as she had laid eyes upon him, his oceanic deep-blue eyes nearly undoing her heart completely, leaving her defenseless in his wake. He had been hesitant, truly unwilling in the beginning, seeing her through cold eyes which could not see past her tiny shell shaped ears. Or her mortality. But soon, he had become defenseless, as somehow she had crept into the coldness of his heart, where no Elf or human had ever journeyed by his own choice. He was a warrior, not a lover. Somehow, she had changed all of this, leaving him mercilessly lost to her young ocean soul, and an ocean soul she truly was. Too tempting and beautiful to resist, yet forlorn and dangerous at the same time. But she had him twisted around her finger, and knew he could not stay away, and had not in the two years he had loved her.

But now she was to me married, at her father's will, not even her own. And the man she was to marry cared nothing, like her father, of her well being, only of the inheritance that came in her dowry. When Legolas had first seen the man courting his Anemone, he had reached for his bow and arrow, unable to bear watching the man sneer and jest at his love. But, unfortunately, he had not shot the man, and now was paying for his conscience in the worst way possible.

Anemone stood in her bedroom, awaiting her father's call, which would no doubt ring out sooner or later, now that he was here, bargaining over her as if she were a beast, not a high lord's daughter. She had first believed his inclination to be a jest, a joke on her behalf, knowing her love stood merely feet away from her in all of his Elven splendor, but she had soon learned that betrothal was a serious thought on her father's mind, and knew him to be mad.

She had begged for her father to let her be with Legolas, explaining their hearts and impassable love. He had merely laughed cruelly, promising that ne'er would his daughter wed an Elven kind, royalty or not, no matter his deeds in the defeat of the Dark Lord. She had warned him that she would be not married to the man of his choosing, wanting not a man, but her Legolas, at pain of death. Her father had knocked her clear across the room with that comment, leaving her crumpled body sobbing in the corner. Never before had her father struck her, not his only, and beloved child. But he had scowled as she lay low, cradling her wounded cheek, telling her to watch her tongue.

She had left the room, walking outside to be among the grasses and trees, finding Legolas perched contentedly below a sycamore, reading silently in the shade. She had fallen to his side, weeping uncontrollably in her misery, leaving Legolas a mass wreck of rage and helplessness, threatening to put an end to her father's life dare he touch her again. She had wept to him that it was no longer safe for him to be in her fathers sight, knowing he would banish him from view, regardless of his stance in Ithilien, being one who had recreated it. He had refused blatantly, willing to take her away from her ruin, and make her his lady before all the world. She, knowing now how happy she would have been, had told him no, walking away slowly, and feeling fear for his life, as well as her own.

"Anemone," he had called, "do not fear him. Ne'er shall he touch you again, save in sorrow as my arrow fills his heart." She had kissed his forehead, and left silently, afraid of the Elf's threats, not truly wishing for her father to be killed. Oh, how she wished he had now.

It was the eve before the wedding's dawning, and Anemone stood quietly, allowing tears to stain her cheeks rose red. She had made an oath before her father to marry no one but Legolas at pain of death. At pain of death, and there was no other way. Legolas had returned to Gondor, visiting a dear friend of his, completely oblivious to the schemes behind his back that would leave him broken hearted and without a lady, nor love. She had heard rumors of the king of Gondor's passing, and had felt sadness in the news, knowing how Legolas had adored him so. She wondered how Legolas would react to her own death, if he should weep for her it would leave a heavy mark upon her shallow grave. Oh, how she longed to be within his welcome arms once more, falling asleep to the rise and fall of his breast, but these were days of evil and she knew she should never feel his arms again.

Were she to go through with her plan, it would need to be soon, for even as she thought, her father sat in the room next to her own signing documents, creating the treaty to which would lead to her unwilling marriage. If she waited any longer, she would be a grave bride, not mourned lover. The thought of marrying that evil man scared her more than death ever could. She lay against the wooden railing of her balcony, having left her room, no longer able to bear hearing her father speak so thoughtlessly of her future children that would never be. Looking below her, it was not so far a fall as she had wished it to be, but it would certainly do the job, and not be so messy as her other alternatives, and grasping the small dagger in her dresses, she knew that if the fall failed to break her, the sharpness of the blade surely would.

The air was cool, the sky dark. In the distance, she caught sight of the river. Thick mist lay upon the water, the wind failing to undo the clinging fog. The wind blew, gathering her hair, and letting it rise and fall in the cool, silent, breaths. The mist was the last scene her eyes beheld before she let herself fall freely from her platform. People below, and beyond, who saw the small shape of a woman dive to the rocks below, felt their hearts drop, knowing full well who had flown certainly to her untimely death.

Anemone never found use for the dagger, the fall breaking her neck from the impact at which she landed.

Her father had heard cries from outside of his window, and frustrated with the sudden interruptions of his pressing business, had opened his window, looking down to shout at the horrified onlookers now rushing to the side of his dead daughter. Knowing that something important had taken place, he left his window, excusing himself from the loathly gentlemen, and had left his home curiously, and angrily, yelling at people for the noise they were making.

Suddenly, he had seen the small form laying limply among the rocks, where masses of people had begun to surround to have a look at the young lady, who had apparently lost her sanity. Feeling his heart tearing from his chest, he had thrown himself at his child's silent body, grief overcoming him so suddenly as he realized what his selfishness had caused. He had caused. Grasping his daughter in his shaking arms, and feeling her lifeless body move limply in his hands, he felt the last shred of sanity he held leave him as his heart broke.

The people of Ithilien had mourned for Anemone, each feeling they had lost a wonderful child, who had always been so fond of flowers, and dancing. And of Legolas. Many wore black, respectively, and any events in the city that had been planned were put off indefinitely. Legolas returned to his home, heart heavy as he had watched his greatest friend and comrade pass into the lands beyond, where all mortal men went. Never in a million more years would he have expected so much sorrow surrounding him as he witnessed, riding from Gondor, to be in his behalf. Perhaps, he imagined, they had heard the grievous news of their fallen king. He had not prepared his heart for the tragedy to be in his own name.

Returning home, he had seen people along the way outside, gathering asphodel to make what appeared to be a mourning reef. He had asked them of whom they were mourning, and it was then that he learned the death of his beloved Anemone. He had almost not heard the woman's tearful words, but had felt them with full impact, feeling his immortal soul flee from his flesh, leaving him merely hollow and existing. He had nearly been sick, falling to the ground, and staring ahead at the mist laying on the waters. He had not cried aloud, nor screamed. "Anemone," he had merely whispered, knowing inside that he was dying.

He had been told of her passing in detail. A witness had spoken that Anemone had pulled herself upon her railing, and let herself fall a moment later to the rocks below her home, silently. There had been no blood, he was told, but her neck had been broken quickly, and a knife was found in her garments, signaling that she had meant to die. Legolas had asked quietly where she lay, and the woman had pointed her finger toward the north to the above ground tombs. He had almost not believed the woman, until he had seen her name freshly carved into the stone shaped into an anemone flower. Collapsing to the ground, grief filling his every breath and thought, he had wept for his Anemone, longing just once more for the opportunity to hold her, to feel her laugh against his chest, and breathe against his cheek. He had cursed everything he had thought of, hating his empty life, and despising her father with unsurpassed intensity.

He had lain at her grave for hours, whispering her name, hoping that somehow her beautiful voice would respond. It was in the cold darkness of the night that he realized that she was forever gone, and was not coming back, and it was because she loved him that she was dead. The thought burned in his chest, and he longed for a dagger to plunge it into his lifeless, careless, faulty heart. He had loved her more that he had ever imagined loving anyone, and she was laying where he could nevermore see.

The people had observed the miserable Lord of Ithilien, some approaching him a time or two, but he was deaf to every word spoken, waiting for Anemone to break his eternal silence. Would he have been less weak from being grieve stricken, he would have happily killed her father in a heartbeat, all use for moral calamity permanently gone. It was then that he decided that he needed to immediately depart Middle Earth, in the midst of his greatest, and deepest sadness, surpassing even that of his pain for his lost friend. Either he would depart, or he would die.

He had departed Ithilien two days later, unable to tear away from Anemones resting place, not once seeing her father come about, though kindhearted people would bring flowers of lilies and asphodels to lay in respect for the lady who would have surely been his, had he known of her fathers treachery. The calling of the sea no matter carried its weight as a longing, but a necessity. If he did not leave this place now, he knew he would surely be claimed by death. Legolas sat on the sandy beaches carving wood silently to suit his need of passage, faithful Gimli sitting at his side, helping him to build what would be their departing boat. Gimli knew not what ailed his friend, but upon seeing his dulling face, and darkening eyes, he knew better than to question.

Gimli helped to build the ship, doing so quickly, watching the overwhelming anguish engulf his old friend. It was there, on those sandy beaches, that Legolas whispered his goodbyes to his Anemone, swearing to ever love and remember her being, and sailed west to Valinor with Gimli, never speaking again.