Legolas lay on top of the covers, watching Aragorn smoke. He did it every night, no exceptions. Not even if it were a very hot, very humid night, and his roommate were very weary of smoke, and he had just learned that it was very bad for his lungs, no, not even then did he give it up.

Legolas sighed and turned over, he was tired of complaining. Aragorn had pinned on him the role of 'starving artist', without even asking him if he could paint, or if he wanted it. It was, of course, better than playing 'mum' to four exceptionally hospitable hobbits whose ages he had messed up. Apparently, mortal children weren't that short at twelve. But how should he know? He was an elf.

He kicked the white comforter disdainfully onto the floor; the room was suffocating.

Cultural assimilation, that was their next goal, and what a hard goal it would be. He had been madly researching the culture for days now, but there was still so much to learn, and still so much that he could never understand. It was a world of men, and that was a world he would never belong to. He twisted some of his hair around his finger; he was going to have to ask Aragorn to cut it off. Apparently men didn't wear their hair so long. How will I ever pass off as a man? He wondered, drawing his knees up and hugging them tightly. He was an elf, one of the first children of Iluvatar, one of the Eldar, blessed with immortality, but to live forever in a world such as this? Was that such a blessing? He looked again at Aragorn; he was a man, a mortal. Could he understand the world that surrounded them? Legolas studied Aragorn. No. Yes. Maybe. He couldn't tell. Aragorn looked so composed, watching the cars outside. Cars. Aragorn understood them; he had even talked of learning to drive. Yes, Aragorn could understand. But the hobbits couldn't, and neither could Gimli.

He frowned as he thought about the dwarf. Gimli claimed to be as strong as any man, fearless and brave; he had no feelings in his heart of stone. And yet, he had seen Gimli quake a little as a car drove past, he had seen the look in his eyes when Aragorn had said that they could not return. He did have feelings. But what did his feelings matter to him? Gimli was a dwarf, his love was gold, his home the black depths of a mountain, his life an endless search for wealth. Gimli missed the treasures he had at home, the gold that he prized, the silver he hoarded, the jewels hidden away in the mountain that he worshipped in mockery of stars, for no stars shone so deep underground. Nay, Gimli missed his father, his land, his home, the people that he had been raised among, his friends, and his family. Perhaps. He knew so little of dwarves, he did not know if they loved or could love or would. Gimli was as unfathomable to him as the white walls that surrounded him.

He sat up and pulled his night shirt off, for a moment he was offered some relief as his skin breathed again, but the newness soon wore off, and he lay back down as hot as he had been before. It was useless trying.

He closed his eyes, thinking about the hobbits. Ah! the hobbits, those creatures of warmth and joy, they seemed to see all the good in the world, blatantly disregarding evil. He had heard that no hobbit had ever killed another hobbit, that in the shire crime was unheard of, that everything there was good and peaceful. And the hobbits were such dear creatures; they did not seem capable of comprehending wrong deeds. He doubted that Pippin knew the meaning of the word murder, well, perhaps that was not true, but surely none of them could understand why anyone would commit a murder. How could they survive in this cruel world?

But it did not matter which of them could relate to their new world, and which could not; they were all there, whether they understood or not. And there was only way out, it seemed. Boromir would die first, followed by the hobbits, Aragorn, and Gimli. He did not know if Frodo would die or not, if the ring would preserve him and draw his life out, as it had done to Gollum, he did not know if the ring had any power in the new world, if it even meant anything anymore. But, whatever way it went, he would watch the rest die off, one by one, as the world grew stranger and he grew older, always older, but never old. No, he was one of the Eldar, he would not die; he could not escape the world, he was bound to it, to it and its fate till the end of it all. Bound to the world of men, forever.

'Aragorn.'

The ranger turned, his eyes filled with a memory that the elf could not read. 'Yes, Legolas?'

'You're going to die.'

Aragorn twisted his pipe between his fingers and studied the Legolas as if a sudden realization had hit him.

Legolas watched him with steady eyes.

Aragorn put down his pipe.

Legolas sat up.

Aragorn stood up. 'Oh, Legolas…' he broke off and just stood there, his arms at his sides, his eyes sad.

Comfort me. But what comfort could he offer him? Could he promise him the hope of Valinor? No, for he could not even say if Iluvatar existed. There was no hope then.