Welcome! This isn't my first fan fiction, but it's the first I've posted on this particular website. I'm a little rusty- so please, if you spot any mistakes, I'd be grateful if you'd let me know so I can change them. Other then that, enjoy! (Despite the major character death/s, this is not a one shot.)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, places, or..anything affiliated with middle earth or the Lord of the Rings. Sadly.
Legolas Thranduillion stood forlorn against the rapidly dimming heavens, many bodies slain at his feet - mangled, with swords and feathered arrows still protruding from their chests. The remainder of his party scoured the blood stained ground, all of them searching the mass of deceased bodies; elves, orcs, and men, and all of them praying that the next they overturned did not belong to a loved one - a brother, father, or friend. The scene was not unfamiliar to the lone Elf, nor was it any less disheartening then any other battlefield he had stood in, in his long and copious existence. Each time, his stomach developed the same uneasiness, and each time he felt the need to escape the bloody ruins as quickly as he could, before his stomach's contents - in all their uneasiness - decided to reappear at his feet.
The fair-skinned Elf let out a drawn sigh, lifting a hesitant lead-like foot, in an attempt to desert the battlefield with as much haste as possible. What he did not expect, however, was the sudden sensation that set alight in his left side, like boiling oil bubbling beneath his skin. With no real warning, his knees made to buckle, and Legolas found himself with one slender hand clawing at the dirt in a vain effort to ease the sudden tremendous pain in his abdomen. His free hand rose to where the pain was spreading, cobalt eyes widening when fingers brushed across the cold hilt of a blade. The archer was unbelieving as he eased himself back into a semi-upright position, chin lowering as he took in the foreign object ingrained in the flesh of his side. "Aiya.." /Oh../ He murmured, his splitting lips parting as he laid an ashen hand - too pale, now he noticed - on the shaft of the scimitar.
How had he not noticed this? Elves were attentive beings at even the worst of times, how had he not come to recognise the sword that ailed him so? Thus, it was without hesitation that his hand wrapped about the steel, joined by his other hand, removing the blade with a swift pull.
The agonising howl that followed bit into the dampening air, and it was only until after it had subsided that the archer realised it was his own. It turned the heads of surviving men, but none were in a close enough proximity to source where the scream had come from. Neither did any of them care for the bleeding Elf, too busy occupied with retrieving the bodies of those they had lost. Crimson seeped from the open wound and collected at his knees in a pool, despite his futile efforts to staunch the wound's insistent draining of his body. His fingers slipped and fumbled in the wetness, often eliciting sharp, short yelps from himself, until the spinning in his head and aching in his limbs became too much, and Legolas was forced to collapse backwards, his back connecting with blood-swamped grass. Red stained his tunic, and soaked his hair, whilst a looming blackness threatened the peripheral rim of his vision, waiting like a warg on its haunches, to take him.
"Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au', elenea." /My heart shall weep until it see's thee again, stars./
The Elf whispered, his words soft in the darkening, star-lit sky above him. They left him like a temperate, melodious breeze, the words of his kin gentle in comparison to the unforgiving state he lay in. Why should he feel panic? As an old friend had said, death was just another path. A path taken by that said friend, and the entirety of those whom he had once held dear. He now recalled, in fact, how alone he truly was.
His kinsman had left, to the shores of Lindon, and onto the Grey Havens, along with the ringbearer and wizard, so many years ago, leaving Middle Earth scarcely inhabited by elves. King Aragorn, infamous ruler of the coming fourth age, more fondly known as Estel to Legolas and his most beloved brother, had also passed long ago, leaving the White city to a line of fine kings - including their son, Eladrion, who eventually fell during a battle. The three hobbits outlived the King of Gondor, although eventually Samwise Gamgee succumbed to fever in his age - folks had said he never quite lived past loosing Frodo, and Merry and Pippin were said to have never returned from the mountains in which they had sought to explore.
And then there was Gimli - his most beloved Gimli - whom had also fallen during battle. The two, elf and dwarf, along with King Eomer of Rohan (also deceased), had fought the last of the Sauron's Uruk-hai, in what was also the dwarf's last battle. Oh, how Legolas had wept for the loss of his friend. For the loss of all his friends that he had loved so dearly. Over the years, with many centuries passed, Legolas had learned to accept their passing as ill-fated, yet wholly inevitable destiny, despite their deaths still weighing on him every waking day; in his latter years, he had come to think immortality a curse.
And yet there he lay, stray blood staining the alabaster skin of his chin as it spilled from his lips, the grace and life within him slowly ebbing away like a flame without oxygen. He knew it would soon be distinguished. And yet he could not help the relief that washed over him and soothed his aching muscles. At last, he saw escape from the confines that had become his existence, at last, he saw circumvention from the loneliness he knew would greet him every morning and evening if he were to live. At last, the former Prince of Mirkwood found peace, lids slipping closed as the warmth of death cradled his aching soul, and lifted it from his now cold body.
"Namaarie, a'maelamin elenea."
/Farewell, my beloved stars./