A/N This is a one-shot I wrote a couple months ago. Long story short, it's an AU where Legolas is a traitor to the Fellowship of the Ring and spy for Sauron. I got the idea from a video on YouTube called AU LOTR Legolas Seven Devils. Here's the link: watch?v=BFZGX5DPUhc.
Enjoy! Please review if you have the time, I'm always open to new ideas and constructive criticism.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters Legolas, Aragorn, LotR, ect. However, Gwendolyn is my original character.
"Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep little lion man, you're not as
Brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head"
-"Little Lion Man", Mumford and Sons.
"Stay back!" She hissed, crimson fury annihilating the gray in her eyes, "I know what you did. You killed them, all of them. I know what you are."
The woman was hunched over, defeated, and on the ground, but she still managed to rigidly hold out the worn butcher's knife between her and the elf in what little hope of self-preservation she had left. She must have taken the knife from the dining table in the next room over when she ran for her life.
Her fingertips were bleeding; painting the wood hilt she held in a slick dark varnish. There were streaks of the same hue on the stone walls, crisscrossed and frantic.
It was as if the old hag had tried to claw her way out of the solid rock.
Her fear was amusing.
Frazzled hair of grayish white and the frame of a malnourished soul, she met the elf with the silent will of her own. Surprisingly strong in mind for her depleted form.
She had seen how he had killed. Everything she thought his people fought for burned untrue in the bodies of his victims. The weapon, the one everyone was saying could win the war, turn the tide; she had heard rumors that the archer had tried to take it. But when he appeared with the ranger, their king, with an army of dead to win the battle on the Pellenor, all doubts had flown from her cobwebbed mind, and everyone else's, for that matter.
How could a child of the wood such as he, so wise, so skilled, so morally good in every outward way, a prince at that, be a servant of the enemy?
But he was.
And she had figured it out long before anyone else. She had tried to warn them, but she knew long beforehand that it would do no good. Who in their right mind would ever listen to her?
The crazed beggar that could only see out of her right eye and hobbled on paper thin legs. Who would be mad enough to take her seriously?
She knew even from before all their warriors rode out to the black gates, leaving their city so hopelessly unprotected.
A simple act of murder, and she knew.
The woman remembered the way the thorns licked her hands with their needled touch. The berries had dyed her hands almost the same color they were now. She was going to sell the ones she collected for what little they were worth; maybe for some bread.
When she heard voices she had cowered behind one of the plants, and the sharpness caught and snagged at the tattered cloth she called clothes.
The elf and the man. The prince and the king. They were friends, and good ones; if she could gather anything from the bits and pieces of conversations that spread like wildfire in the White City.
They were scouting the area, mapping the lay of the land in their minds for future reference. The woman grinned despite her age and her predicaments because as it played out the two were bantering more than working. Like old friends. Smiling. Laughing. Joking. Teasing.
But one of them was calculating. Weighing his options. Only she didn't know it until he struck.
She knew the elf's name by then. Legolas. Didn't have the slightest idea as to what it meant in elvish. She was just beginning to let her mind wonder when his eyes went steely and he noiselessly unsheathed one of his blades.
She meant to cry out, to warn the king who's back was turned, but no words came. She could have saved the ranger but she didn't. She tried to tell herself it was not her fault.
The knife slid in. There was a gasp, the sound of life escaping a body. The knife slid out. Then came the sound of a person, a king, a corpse, hitting the grassy earth.
There was a sullen "Forgive me, Mellon" but it did not carry any emotion.
Legolas had morphed, right before her very eyes. From the angelic, lighthearted elven prince, to the hollow-eyed martyr, servant of the enemy. It was like he had stripped away his skin until his vile innards spilled out in the light of the sun that did not reach his soul.
He was a demon with a very convincing mask.
Her breath was shaky, doom was dawning on the horizon, not the sun. Sickness took hold, prying her eyes so that she could not look away from her people's impeding desolation.
There was a worm in the free people.
It had been tearing them apart from the beginning, but only now did she see it.
There was no chance for the reunion of men. There was no hope. The king was dead, and there were no heirs.
She had waited until the elf busied himself with dragging the body to a nearby stream. From there it would float throughout the Resistance and make their failures known.
When his back was turned she ran. Frantic and un-logically across the open fields to the weathering gem that was Gondor. She didn't look back and she hoped to the best of her ability that he wouldn't either. If he spotted her there'd be no doubt. She would be on his kill list, she was sure of that.
She prayed he wouldn't turn around.
He turned around.
Legolas remembered this one. Even though she was covered in dirt and blood and grim he could see in his mind's eye the way she hobbled as fast as she could; tripping, falling, picking herself up, and then running father away. Away from him.
The same fear in her eyes. Of course he knew she was there when he killed Aragorn. It was amusing to think she actually thought that that scraggly shrub was keeping her hidden. But he let her live, if only for a little while. At the time there were greater concerns to be taken care of, and what damage could a crazed witch do? None.
She was tense, pressed up against the freshly blood-stained wall, legs still motoring on the grey floor, desperately searching for purchase. Even now she was still trying to run.
When she attempted a glance up at him through the tangles of her hair he smirked. It suited him, but in all the wrong ways. The very same smile Legolas aimed towards Frodo when he was turned away. One of hunger and greed and frost. Like predator and prey.
The woman swallowed hard then spoke.
"You are a child of the wood if I am not mistaken? Why would you choose this path of evil and destruction and betrayal? You have murdered in the name of the lord of death. Forgive me elf, I am mistaken. You see, I was under the impression that elves did not kill in cold blood."
Legolas' smile faded. His eyes flashed with newly kindled hatred. The glare threatened to burn twin holes through the woman's eyes and into her brain.
"I did not think you would understand. None of you would. For that there must be punishment. Our lord Sauron has promised so much more than you could comprehend. The Free People were ignorant. They rejected any offers of happiness, of peace, of luxury, of contentment that was given. The fools fought in the name of things that were waiting for them if they could only see. I saw this blindness. That is why the Free People are no longer free."
"Then that is why you killed the King? Your fellow friend and ally? Because of this delusion? You are indoctrinated, Legolas. You betrayed everything you fought for, and for what? To have all this emptiness to yourself and to be told that you are now happy? You have created countless moral sins, evils that cannot be described with words because you wanted to be happy. Tell me now, are you happy?"
Legolas' jaw locked and he ground his teeth together with such force that they might have began to crack. This women did not have the right to accuse him, to judge his actions like she knew the stakes, and she definitely did not have the right to use his given name.
Of course she did not understand. None of them did and none of them ever would. He did not do the deeds he did without reason. They could not see the need. The world was failing, dying. The only way it could be saved from its self-destruction was to side with Mordor. It had to be done no matter what the cost. Sacrifices had to be made. He did it for his people, and for the world of men, and hobbits, and dwarves. Why could they not recognize his gift to them? He had saved them after all.
"I did it for all of Middle Earth. Your people were destroying it, with every foolish feud and war. I rescued all of you, and this is the thanks I get. Now, your people can have a chance at sanctity and bliss."
The women laughed in his face. Loud and long. Legolas contemplated shooting her right then and there as her punishment.
"Sanctity and bliss! How can the people of Middle Earth achieve 'sanctity and bliss' when they cease to exist? You call me ignorant and I am, but it takes true stupidity to believe a lie like that."
At this Legolas felt no rage, only confusion. The fog cleared from some deep place in his mind and left him with only emptiness. He felt denial, he felt cold, he felt like he had been lied to.
Surely he did not try to take the ring because of his own greed. He did not assassinate Boromir because Sauron manipulated him. He did not kill Aragorn for nothing. All of those things were impossible. The great lord Sauron would not lie to him.
Would he?
No, no. No.
Legolas closed his eyes. He felt himself fall through the gaping hole in his soul. It had been there for a long time but he hadn't known. There was no danger but himself. The world had never been in jeopardy, never even needed to be saved.
Legolas realized that he had been lied to. He realized that he was responsible for the fall of Middle Earth, and everything that he used to hold most dear.
The numbness began at his hands and traveled until he was encompassed in the feeling of nothing. Nothingness on the outside, nothingness on the inside. Just the chilled ashes of his heart after it tore itself apart. He did not feel guilt. He did not feel anger, or sadness.
Loneliness was only the only thing left of him. All life had abandoned him long ago, but only now did he feel the husk that remained. Of him, of the world.
And he couldn't do anything about it. Nothing at all. Utterly and staggeringly alone.
The old woman's voice called him back into what little reality was left.
"In death, you can never repent."
Legolas' voice was weak, all but the whisper of what remained, "No, I can't."
There was a pause until he spoke again.
"Do you fear me?"
"Yes. But I know I am going to die. I have come to terms with that. There is nothing left for me here."
With that the woman placed the knife on the ground with shaking, wrinkled hands.
At this Legolas smiled. But it was not with evil or malice. It was with all the weight of the world. His eyes glazed over.
With clearly practiced grace he slid one of his twin knives out of the holster on his back and knelt next to the women.
"What is your name?"
"Gwendolyn"
"Be at peace Gwendolyn."
Legolas slit Gwendolyn's throat, quickly so she didn't have to endure much. The blood poured down her chest and left with her spirit.
When Legolas was sure the woman would never breathe or walk among the living he stood.
The world was burning because of him and because of this it was him that deserved never-ending pain.
The least he could do was spare a life from the newly created hell that was reality. The hell created by him.
The woman was right after all, he could never be forgiven, nor did he want to. In fact he hoped that in death the gods would not be apologetic. He deserved the pain. So much pain, like he had inflicted upon countless others.
There was no way to fix what he had done, for it was so permanent, so definite. As hard as he tried to convince himself otherwise there was nothing left for him in Middle Earth. No pieces remained to put back together. No hope. No light. No going back. Except he knew that from the very beginning.
Only then he was blind and ignorant. Following the sickening orders of a demon, hell-bent on revenge and murder and power. The thought made him sick to his stomach.
He was no vigilante.
He was no prophet.
He was no god.
He was a servant, a traitor
His strength was an illusion.
He was ignorant, careless.
He was despicable.
He was the executioner of an entire world.
Now his own hands shook like the old woman's that he had just assassinated. His stomach churned with blackness and he heaved it up on the carved stonework of the ground.
On his knees, like the tool he was.
The guilt flowed with his tears but it did not ebb.
A killer, a murderer, a criminal. Scum.
No, worse than any of those. There wasn't a word for what he was. But there was.
Evil.
His friends, his allies, his own people. Didn't he ever stop to think about what he was doing? He knew that answer.
No, for he was blind and stupid and weak. Look where it had left him.
His hands were soaked in blood and his conscience utterly destroyed. Alone and cowardly.
He was wrong. Not just in his decisions but as a person.
Wrong and sick morbid and forever broken. More than broken. Smashed to pieces, and he had enforced that upon the world.
He wanted to feel pain. Wanted to wear his deeds like the ugliest scars, but there was no one left to see.
There was nothing left for him, nothing left of him.
He still clutched the blade. So hard his knuckles showed bone. It was coated in red. At least he had managed to save a soul by death, even if it was only saving her from himself.
And now he would save himself.
Pitiful. He didn't deserve it.
Oh how Sauron would laugh. He got what he wanted after all. The irony was the best part. Legolas saving himself from the hell he created. It was indeed laughable.
From where Legolas stood he could see the outside. How the white city was burning, turning black with ash. There were no more screams, for the life had already departed.
That's the last thing he saw before his eyes clouded. The last thing he saw before the crimson poured out of a new gash in his heart.
Smoke was in his last breath, only he did not cough.
He fell to his knees once again, bowing.
The life escaped. The liquid ruby colored the stonework.
His corpse fell to the floor and the blond hair splayed over the carvings.
Freedom in death.