Summary: Legolas was plagued by a horrid dream, one that chilled him to the core. Not because of the visions it showed, but of the pleasures it promised.
A/N: I wanted to explore the idea, mostly because it will not leave me alone. This is a little bit of "One Caress" and a little bit of "Whispers from the Second Age" mixed together for my enjoyment. Though, admittedly, it is not one of my best works, and not quite what I wanted it to be.
Lord of the Rings
Úsahtiërya, His temptation
He was plagued by a horrid dream that night. A dream he could not wake from.
He dreamt the the one ring was reunited with its master. How this had come to pass, he did not know.
He dreamt that the resistance of men was crushed. The majority of the elves fled. The dwarves, what few were known of, hid within the mountains. And he dreamt that he watched all this from the window of a tall tower at the heart of Mordor.
And he dreamt that he would be the one to lead armies of Mirkwood's best warriors to a final assault.
"Soon... soon these lands will be ours," said the silken voice of whoever stood behind him. "You and your kin shall be richly awarded, my Prince." He both knew and did not know who the voice belonged to. It was both familiar and foreign, seductive and terrifying.
Legolas kept silent, wondering why he fought against the free people. Wondering why it did not bother him as it should have.
"The war will soon be over. Already I've ordered my armies to leave your kingdom. Dol Guldur is yours. Mirkwood is yours to rebuild. It shall become Greenwood once more."
Greenwood the Great, it had been called, back when the trees had been old and wise and serene.
An armoured hand fell upon his shoulder and Legolas flinched at the touch. The metal was cold, and yet it burned.
"You need not fear spiders or dragons, men or dwarves. You need not fear orcs. Your people will live in peace, undisturbed. You have my word."
The hand on his shoulder seared an angry mark into his flesh, yet he did not pull away. Enchanted by the voice, Legolas merely watched as the fires of destruction ate the lands before him. He was one of the torch-bearers.
"From fire rises new life. The ashes will provide nourishment for new plants to grow, stronger than those before them. New villages shall be constructed and the cities rebuilt. All will be united under one rule, under new laws, and there will be no conflict between races. None that cannot be solved by their Lord."
Legolas wanted to disagree. He should not have stood here, willing to bleed his allies. The elves and dwarves should have left Middle Earth. The age of men should have begun.
"And what respect would men have towards life when they cannot respect even each other? How could they unite and rule these lands, when even now they fight over who their rightful King is?"
Unbidden, the memories arose. Of Theoden arguing with Estel. Of Boromir denying Isildur's heir. Of the clear animosity between Gondor and Rohan. And what of the men of Bree? Or those of the Dales? Would they follow any King?
The voice of silk laughed; soft and kind and mocking. Legolas shivered. Too many emotions fluttered through his mind for him to keep up. Fear and anticipation and longing settled deep in his chest and strangled his voice away from him. He could fight for Mordor and he could win the battles. And his home could be free of darkness once more.
But men ruled in their own way. It was not the place of Legolas or this familiar stranger to interfere.
"Why? Would you not interfere if two children fought over a playground large enough for both?" And before Legolas could formulate his argument, the voice whispered now closer than before: "And compared to us, my Prince, we who live for thousands of years, the race of men are but children. Are they not?"
All came to an halt, and though he wished to deny the words, they settled deep inside his soul with far more ease that ought to have been appropriate. The hand on Legolas' shoulder tightened for a while, both comforting and threatening.
"So you see," were the words spoken so softly they could have drifted upon a breeze and Legolas wished to pull away and shout: No he did not see! "They need our guidance. They need an unanimous King. One who has seen the world change, and who can guide them through what more changes are to come."
Silence followed. The hand on Legolas' slowly numbing shoulder weighted him down like a shackle. Thoughts and emotions tumbled about in his mind and Legolas found himself answering his own questions and questioning his own answers. Behind him the presence waited; reassuring him, mocking him, both gentle and dangerous. It was patient now because it knew his thoughts without them being voiced.
But he could not let this presence twist his mind.
"Tell me, do you think they can live in peace? Will they resist attacking each other at the promise of riches or land? Will they speak to their neighbours when feeling threatened by them and would they believe any reassurances given?"
Theoden and Estel were wise men. He would not let this presence twist his mind.
"And will their children be as wise? Or their grand-children? As long as there are two kings, there will be two warring opinions, will there not?"
Even as the words seemed truthful, Legolas vehemently denied them. He would not let this presence twist his mind.
The grip on his shoulder pulled him back against a metal-covered chest. Lips brushed the shell of Legolas' ear, feeling colder than snow, colder than death. But the breath that rolled over his cheek was fire.
"Consider these words, my Prince, for you cannot deny them."
Gasping for air, the elf finally awoke. Dread still clutched at his heart, but the familiar sight of his slumbering companions helped calm him. With each breath, the dream became more distant, easier to bare. He could no longer remember what had transpired, or what had been said, but a sense of worry remained... along with troubled thoughts and a longing he knew was wrong.
. . .
epilogue:
Thranduil lay silently in his bed, one hand gripping the sheets, the other stifling any sound he may have made. He'd slept peacefully and undisturbed for the first time since becoming King. There were no voices whispering to him nor visions of war that fled from memory with the rising sun. For the first time in so many, many years he had not been tempted by darkness, and it brought him nothing but despair.
The King knew that his temptations had not ceased. The voice had not quietened. Thranduil knew, though he could not say how, that his dreams, his curse, had sought out younger blood. And all he could do, as both a father and a King, was to hope that Legolas was strong enough to resist, just as he had resisted for centuries.
End.