— Solo

He’s falling asleep. “…I love you.” “I love you, too. Always.” “…Always and forever.” “Until the end of time.”

Sometimes, the story just ends, like a dream upon waking. No beginning, no ending. Just a story.

“Shhh. Just listen.” _and the other gently touches his long blonde hair — and the birds are singing. There is no end, not really. Endings are never truly neat, or answer all the questions. Sometimes, endings come abruptly, untidily.

The birdsong is nothing he has ever heard before. And all is well. No beginning, no end. He does speak, eventually. “If I fall asleep…”

Listen to… birds. There are birds singing in the sun, the sound of a summer morning, endless blue skies, the air fresh with possibilities. A clean slate. For real, this time. A shed skin, a rebirth. And the birds sing, and time is no longer. For either of them.

“Thranduil. No more. Just listen.” He’s not even speaking, and yet he is understood.

Losing you tore my heart from my body, and I have had to live with it outside of me every moment since. Every memory of you became bloodied, a battlefield. I had to live with my mistakes and be punished by them forever.

“Letting you go. Pushing you away. Not coming after you… being too —“ And the other puts a finger to his lips, cutting the elf’s words off — no neat ending. Just what is. “I know.”

“What was the first?” the other’s face changes, as if he already knows. Thranduil remembers that smile and for the first time in what feels like forever, the memory no longer aches inside of him. All there is is joy.

of what you deserved.” “I know you did.” “…Not saying goodbye to you was the second biggest regret of my existence.”

its answers — there is no real completion, no perfect, tied off ending. There is just… this. And in this, fear has gone. Pain. All the things that twist you, the dull ache and the sharp knife in your heart. “I loved you. With everything I had. And it wasn’t even a fraction

“…We never…” “This is our chance.” “…I never forgot you. Not even for a moment, not a beat of a hummingbird’s wing…” “I was never sure. Until…” And it washes over him, the uncertainty, the unknown, none of it matters anymore. The end has finally come, with all

“I am not imagining you, am I…? This really is the end?” “It is.” Another plain simple answer. “I am sorry.” Such an inadequate, pathetic word for everything he has been unable to say for so long. “I know.”

Thranduil’s fingers move over the lines in his face as if re-committing them to memory, rivers forged by time and mortality, ones he had started to forget. It is impossible to remember someone in this much detail, even for him. Time softens, fades. Heals, given long enough.

“For a while, and then… it didn’t. You just slip off into…somewhere else.” “And where is somewhere else?” “Here.”

Worse than a dream. Does one even continue to dream beyond the veil? Even with the certainty of immorality in one form or another. “You are not meant to be here.” “You don’t know everything, Thranduil.” “…did it hurt? At the end?”

plain and simple. Grey eyes flecked with green. How could he possibly forget that? Green. Like… “Then I should be…” “And you will. Call this somewhere else.” Thranduil’s hand still rests on his face. “This isn’t forever…?” “Not so long.”

Real, live warmth. “You’re not dreaming.” “…But this is not real.” How can he possibly be…? “I suppose it depends how you define real… but you’re not asleep.” And it drops, like a stone in a vast lake, sinking, colder and colder. “Am I…?” “You are.”

waking hours. “You’re not dreaming, Thranduil.” Impossible. But despite himself, he puts his hand out to touch the face of the other. “I must be.” For once, he can touch. Feel, even. “No.” The other’s skin is warm. From within, not like a statue warmed by the sun.

but ever so slightly out of reach. What time is it? Impossible to tell. He turns, realising he’s not alone — not an entirely unusual scenario, but his companion is awake. …Impossible. He’s still asleep, even if it feels real. Another cruel dream to torture him into his