The Carnival of Sovereigns: Chapter One
Pride in Being Degenerate
Rating: PG-13(for themes and some heavy bashing). Rating will probably be upped to an R in the future.
Genre: Angst/Drama with tinges of Romance. Obscure Mirkwood prince Legolas Greenleaf strives to make his mark in history and to stand out amongst all other elven royals. Some het, some slash, but not enough to consider this piece a romance.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters; they are property of JRR Tolkien. Damnit, I wish I owned all these elf princes, though...as for all the original characters, I'm happy to let them own themselves.
A/N: Read, review and flame at your whim. Constructive criticism and suggestions of plot bunnies are always welcome. This is one of my most heavily edited fics, and if you think it is worth your time, I would appreciate it if you also send me editing suggestions for this story. After all, there are simply too many Legolas angst fics out there. And as for this boring-as-hell first chapter, my profuse apologies. As with all long stories, things do not heat up until several installments later.
Second A/N: Even though in all of Tolkien's works elves are regarded as the sublime, superior, perfect race, I thought the Quendi had some sort of underlying snobbery and vulgarity. In this fic, although they are the biggest hypocrites in Arda (and they sort of know it), they don't admit it. Legolas Greenleaf is frustrated, being stuck in this crowd, and becomes some sort of anti-orthodox elf and is determined to secede from the rest of the snobs and "be his own guy". Though his ways label him as a degenerate, he believes that he is actually what a true high-born Quendi should be. And, even though, smothered by his father and surrounded by "high, model" elven hierarchy, he manages to retain his self-esteem amongst grand and snobbish rivals by bullying society with his candid and carping words, consorting with other races, and doing things that are considered "shocking" to his kind so as to make his point. Which, henceforth, results in this long-drawn, pointless political drama. Enjoy.
And let the madness commence
The Carnival of Sovereigns
Pride in Being Degenerate
A loud, vicious crack echoed about the chambers as a gold crown took flight and smacked into the carven statuette of the backboard. The thing had used to be something of beauty; paper-delicate maple leaves, fashioned from gold pounded into a foil; intertwining vines; studded clusters of freshwater pearls the size of hazelnuts, depicting wild woodland berries. Now the fragile leaves were bent, the thin vines distorted, some of the pearls missing, dented and quite mangled in whole after the impact; but its owner could not have possibly cared less. Indeed, he did not give a single damn to how good he would've looked still wearing it, despite being remarkably vain even for his own kind. He simply laughed — for whether he wore the stupid thing or not, hell, it didn't make one Eru-damned difference. He would still be pretty beyond all rational reason.
Truly, deeply, blatantly putting it, Legolas Greenleaf was sick of being a Prince. No, not part sick, or half sick, or a quarter sick, 100 percent wholly sick. He hated everything about his one and only profession, how he had to stand stiff and tall as a tree every morning while greeting his father Thrainduil, King of Greenwood, his mother Nemiel, Queen of Greenwood, all his brothers of this and that name, and all his sisters of this and that name, and a whole horrific mess of other honored guests (from a faraway land. Indeed). He was sick of having to write long, blasphemous essays on what not while being eyed malevolently by some tough white-haired tutor, sick of having to attend all these ugly glitzy, glittering parties in his homewood, Lothlorien, Rivendell, and wherever. And he was sick of having to spell his given name, Laegolas — Quenya style, Quendi style - how utterly idiotic was that? It was L-E-G-O-L-A-S, not L-A-E-G-O-L-A-S, L-E-G-O-L-A-S. So what if it looked fancier, more royal, more proper? Spelling it the way Men and some Sindar Elves did relieved him, at least, of having to write one extra letter every single time he penned his name on another stupid dissertation.
To put it as simply as he possibly could, why, Legolas Greenleaf was indeed altogether sick of being an elf.
He could take it no longer. Nearly three millennia in age, he had been brought up the beaten, disciplined way of all the Elven royals, made to be submissive, bullied into obeying — simply posing as the image his parents wanted him to be, for all his immortal years on Arda. And as his parents were the King and Queen of the wood themselves, the image Legolas was made to adhere to was slowly turning him from angry to mad to deranged. And the next adjective on the list was insane, if he did not do something to vent his suppression soon. Legolas had always managed to beat himself into satisfying his parents' demands, one tormenting way or the other, but after almost three thousand years of subsisting in this Hell by pure acting he had all but reached the end of his tether. And he was sure, even if he bawled his turmoil and trouble so loud that the Valar all the way over the sea in Valinor heard it, why, the most he could hope for was being given a good, harsh scolding — no, a good harsh beating. For, surely, truly, there was no other in this entire, filthy, lowdown world, who would come close to understanding him.
No matter of the fact that "Prince" Legolas had been born an Elf. Of course at the early points of his insignificant life he had been appreciative of his immortality — but soon, the immortality became the only thing he was thankful of while being an elf, and now, well, Varda damn his immortality. And his memory, too; for Legolas was even more emotional than the average elfling and any delicate cause was sure to get tremendous things in the form of effect, and it had always wormed its way into some subconscious information archive and that way become permanently lodged in his skull. His years had only served to pile up his bad memories, his emotions, his vehemence, his disgust, all of those ugly things. For the rest of the Elves, their immortality, their grace, their beauty, and their acute appreciation for nature, only served to remind them that they were the supreme, superior race and form of life that existed. And Legolas, humble Legolas who never bragged even as much as about his looks, despite that they almost deserved bragging, so beautiful he was, hated that high-nosed arrogance. It was in their very blood, that arrogance, their snobbery towards other races — especially Men, and Dwarves — and that was their exact weakness, one weakness among many.
"Damn the Quendi!" Legolas spat out, "and damn their pride! Men and Dwarves are beautiful creatures too — misunderstood, no doubt, just like me" and suddenly, horrified by what he said, he clamped an exquisitely formed hand over his mouth. He had meant that with all his anti-elven heart, what he had just said, but Elves had the most sensitive of senses, a fact that Legolas could not deny - and hell was to be paid if anybody had heard that comment.
He pinched his beautifully chiseled white lips together, and continued ranting on in the form of thoughts, vowing not to make any more verbal outbursts. Yes, really, Elves are snobs, the lot of them, and that was exactly why their race was deemed failing as of currently. Of course Legolas wanted to see the sea, and run wild on the beach right in the surf, for he was still an elf in his thinking and was properly salivated by tales of that place — but the more of him did not want to leave Middle-Earth. No, not just yet. He had only lived here for two thousand, nine hundred, and some years — no way was he leaving yet — his life had only begun! But if the Elves are not willing to get along with others, and share their land, their world, their beauty, Legolas thought vehemently, that is exactly what is going to happen to them — they shall all die. And again, a deranged smile tugged on the corners of his lips, turning them into a curve, and he clapped his hands in glee for having spawn such a wonderful conclusion, an obvious fact of life.
So then, indeed, Legolas Greenleaf was no longer just deranged, he really was insane now. Butwhy did he have to care? No, he did not care at all. He enjoyed the idea, and he began raving again.
If elves weren't so greedy, there never would have been Rings of Power, and this bastard that we call Sauron, Legolas rattled on. If Varda and Manwe weren't so selfish, and had been nice to Melkor, Eru Iluvatar's nose, no Morgoth would ever had existed. Which meant no evil in the world — no foul and dirty orcs, no Mordor, no anything, should've existed. If Finwe hadn't taken an extra wife, there would have been no deadly feud in between Finarfin and Fingolfin, and one other jerk called Feanor, who wrought the damned Simarils which brought ruin for Doriath and a whole long list of others. To make it short and sweet, Elves, Valar-damned elves, were responsible for practically nine out of every ten miseries brought onto the world of Arda and Middle-Earth, if not responsible for eleven out of every ten. And, even better — Legolas smiled. Who were the ones who fixed the problems they had created? Other races. Alright, elves had helped them as well, but mostly it had been the work of other races. Men of Numenor, in particular. They comprised the other half the forces in the battle of the Last Alliance, really, and the one who had sheared the Ring of Power from Sauron himself was called Isildur — a Gondorian prince. Ha!
Alright, alright, Legolas groaned, maybe Isildur was a bitnot honorablefor keeping the Ring for himself, but ai, he could not guarantee that any elf would have done otherwise. Elves were pretty easily persuaded, after all; they were the ones who first fell into Sauron's trap. Which resulted in, as everybody knew, the creation of orcs. Elves and their weakness were the best thing to blame for the making of that terrible, ruined, mutilated form of life whose sole purpose in life was to torture other elves they got their hands on. Of course! It was that simple!
This was the lifestyle the Greenwood Prince had taken to for quite some time now; after his daily morning necessities, being excused from ceremonies and such — he would lock himself in his room, damage things, sometimes going as far as inflicting scars and such on himself with a hunting knife or some other weapon - and vent by arguing with himself. This was how he ended up spending entire mornings, until luncheon came, and he had to go through his tutorials, and his physical drill practices. It was the only way he could vent, just by juggling thoughts like this in his head. But, however, as of lately, not even this method was remedy for his pent-up emotions. Heaving an anguished sigh, Legolas trekked across the chamber and flopped down onto the bed, head in hands. Nothing was of any use. And finally, after three thousand years, the gradual piling up of emotions was finally going to consume him.
Then, ai, yes. What he needed was a change of habit. Legolas, having only sat for a few seconds, jumped up and began pacing frantically, in circles. What was he to change then? But thenLegolas smiled once again — this time merely a cruel, mirthless, forced twist of the lips. Nobody in the Royal House had tutorials today — Thrainduil was taking everybody on a hunt. Good, good, perfect. Hell, bloody ashes and damnation, if his father, mother and a whole shipload's worth of others were to be present. Legolas would simply act different — pushy and high-strung, like one of his real personalities went — and gradually he would imply, through abstract comments, moves, this and that, how he really felt and who he truly was. For, once again, he was sick through of disillusioning himself intentionally in front of the rest of the Quendi. And if he did not change his habit, about right now — there was little knowing what he was going to do to himself in the very immediate future.
And Eru be behind me all the waythought Legolas. He stepped on something, which deflated and crunched as his foot went on it, and he looked down. The leaf crown. Cursing profanities, he bent down and endeavored as best as he could to straighten the thing out - Thrainduil would make him pay for it in all its gem weight, carat for carat, if he discovered that one of his most prized elven smith's gift creation had been smashed and mangled in an intentional gesture. Oh well — Legolas could probably just secretly give it to somebody else to administer repairs, and recollect the thing after luncheon — or he could glue the pearls back on himself and straighten the vines with a hammer —
The boudoir door opened and Legolas jumped, stumbling back a few paces. Silinde, one of Thrainduil's counselors, stepped into the room wearing the usual pompous look. Legolas kept his face straight, but inwardly he felt disgusted — for the love of Iluvatar, he looked like that Lothlorien prick Haldir — and what was Silinde doing here, coming in without permission? Being a top-notch diplomat did not give him, in Legolas's opinion, the right to barge in on others without so much as a knock. As soon as Silinde had stepped in, Legolas had turned about and stealthily tossed the maimed crown onto a throw rug concealed behind the bed, and by good fortune he had not overshot onto the marble, and Silinde had not noticed it. And by even more sheer fortune, Legolas had only put himself in his room for ten or so minutes — so he had not even started tumbling it up. But, ah, damn, he forgot to lock the door.
"Your father, the King, requests your audience," Silinde said, and Legolas fought not to crinkle his nose. What? Hadn't he only been given peace for half an hour?
"What does the King want me for?" Legolas returned stiffly, trying to keep his mouth from contorting into a frown. "We have barely parted moments ago — if he had a request, perhaps he should have detained me after the morning ceremony for his needs —"
"It is not your place to criticize the doings of others higher in rank than you," Silinde responded dryly, cutting Legolas off. "Even though there are few who have that happy advantage over the provocative Greenleaf. Your father has asked for you, and that shall be enough to speak for itself."
Oh, Eru. "Damn," Legolas hissed under his breath, and in a flurry of silver robes he abruptly swished past Silinde and nosed into the corridor, now glad that he had his back to him for he was unable to control his facial expression any longer. This portended something brilliant in store for him, indeed.
And Elbereth Githoniel, Varda's hair, what if Silinde had heard him?
"Mordor indeed, help me."
A/N: Alright, perhaps this fic is not angsty enough, nor dramatic enough, and may even sound like a humor flick — but believe me, Chapter One is but a prelude. The real action, as I've said before, shall occur in following installments, and then it shall get very, very ugly. Thank you for understanding.
Final A/N: My apologies also to any mistakes on names or historical events in reference to the Silmarillion — I've only barely skimmed that book. Besides, I cannot insert circumflexes, accents, or any other punctuation necessities that accompany Quendi names. If you manage to pick out errors, I beg you report them to me in your reviews. And, profuse thanks to all who have chosen to read this fic (and also praise to those elf fans who've endured Legolas's vicious anti-elf arguments — I've only employed him to transcend my thoughts on the Quendi race). If you would understand, I have several fics on FF.Net, and I update them simultaneously, in a round-robin fashion — and as I've written another LOTR fic, The Redeemer, before this one, that one will be updated before this one, and so on. But I truly am scrambling and I shall try to update everything in a matter of 4-7 days. Until then, Kudos you lot! I love ya. ~Verok.