Disclaimer: I do not any of the characters, places or books. If I did, I might actually not be broke.
Summary: A bitter soul remembers the losses of victory. Legolas-centric, AU, post-ROTK
Laughter
Blood. It stained the once white walls in great streaks, like a child's drawing. It was still there, after all those long years…
The lone grey-cloaked figure shuddered at the sight of the once mighty city; countless screams still ringing, ringing through the once fertile fields. Bones, weapons, armor scattered across dry river beds and the vast wasteland, from the ruins of the once mighty city to the mountains which had once sheltered an evil empire.
Glazed blue eyes wandered warily over the sights of old memories, bloody, terrible memories. He hobbled along slowly, leaning on a near-petrified tree branch, trying to avoid the many, many bones. He closed his eyes, as he tried not to glance at the once mighty city… How he had survived through this he knew naught. So many good friends had perished here, or someplace else. So many had died, fighting for a cause that should have been abandoned years ago.
"You would not have liked to see this world, my friends," he murmured softly to the hot wind.
It served as no means to comfort him.
Aragorn had died here.
Gimli? His burned, decomposed corpse had been hardly identifiable.
Elladan and Elrohir? They were not long for this world, he knew that. Not after Arwen had hung herself from the balcony.
Glorfindel, Elrond, and Erestor had all perished when Rivendell had been torn down by countless orcs, and too many of the survivors of that day had not lasted long afterwards…His own home was overrun with things unspeakable… Lothlorien, while it had not fallen, was as good as dead. What with her lord, lady, and far too many leaving for Valinor.
Rohan was broken with the death of Eowyn, and Éomer had been too lost in grief over the death of his sister to truly care; he had fallen in the suicidal second defense of Helms Deep.
Gandalf had perished their also. Fangorn had been burned; the Shire wiped out in a single, brutal assault.
But there, just in front of him, was the cause of all this trouble, and he was dead. It had been his fault. All of it.
His fault that Minas Tirith lay in ruins. His fault that their was no victory, for either side. It had been this, this halfling's fault that everything and everyone he had held dear was either dead or worse.
And He was dead, at long last!
"This is all your fault, Frodo," he whispered. "All of it."
And then, Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, crown prince of Mirkwood, last living member of the Fellowship of the Ring, and a survivor of the War of the Ring, did something he had not done for a long time.
He laughed. A bitter, hollow, grief-filled laugh which echoed through the silent night.