Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of the characters affiliated with this enterprise. I am merely a fan writing for the sake of writing. I make no money off of this.
AN: This is in Legolas' POV
Away by Poetictragedy3790
Pulling back on the silky string, his finger strained against the weight. Paper white skin gleaming like porcelain in the faint sun, shone under golden hair. A breath, a sniff, another breath. He kept telling himself this needed to be done, this horrific act that would stain his innocence forever, but he couldn't believe it. What sin was terrible enough to illicit such a punishment? Why did he have to carry it out?
He could hear the crowd around him, even though they were silent. Their thoughts pushed at his mental barriers and he fought to keep them out, like a troop of warriors trying to defend a citadel.
"Wasn't that how this began?" he wondered to himself, "The protection of a citadel, his citadel, caused this."
The breathing around him was enough to drive anyone mad. They kept breathing, all of them, sucking in the air around him, tainting the precious atmosphere he so needed.
The figure before him should have been trembling. He was facing certain doom and should have been begging for mercy, but he wasn't. No, he was still, his chin held up proudly and his gaze locked with the executioner's own. Said executioner closed his own blue orbs for a moment, just a moment, to collect his thoughts and ponder his own actions. He could remember the clash of steel and the screams of his kinsmen as they fell, bloodied and battered, to the ground, like broken dolls, like the fractured porcelain dolls of his niece.
"Death to the traitor," had been the ruling, but he, the one who would carry out the sentence was not so sure. Did the being before him deserve to die?
His hair whipped around his face and the breathing brought him back to the present. He pulled the string back farther and locked his eyes on his target. One more breath, that's all the two of them could afford- the murderer and the victim. Just one more breath and it would be over.
Breathe in.
"Oh, let this be the right thing to do."
The twang of an arrow being released followed by the whistle of the weapon traveling like death's angel herself and then, the sickening sound of it finding its mark deep within the flesh of the being.
Breathe out.
There was a gurgling sound and then a thump as the body hit the ground. The being relaxed his arm and studied the fallen one before him. He never missed his mark.
Turning away from the traitor, the executioner lifted his hood and walked away from the bloody stage. The attendants would take care of the body. All he had to do now was go to his rooms and rest, yes, rest.
"Ion-nin."
He turned at the sound of his father's voice. The stately figured glided over to him, his robes billowing behind him. Unshed tears rested at the brims of his father's eyes but the older one could still smile weakly, trying to offer some comfort.
"Yes," he whispered.
"It is done, my son, it is done."
His father embraced him, thinking this would soothe the troubled soul of his youngest.
"It is all over now, this treachery."
The son took a breath.
"Yes, yes it is."
He looked down at his bow and shook his head.
"It is done."
He walked away, away from the form of his father, away from the stadium full of spectators, and away from the fallen form of the middle prince, the prince who was his older brother, the prince who had led a rebellion, and the prince who thought his youngest brother was the purest sign of evil. Yes, he walked away, he walked away, his light steps taking him away, all the while the trees bowed and the shadows clung to his feet.
Resting at the base of a tree a little while later, the youngest prince could remember the last words spoken to him by his now deceased brother. Standing next to his older brother, the prince had asked why the older one had done it. With a smile, his brother, who had always hated him, said, "Because you are evil. The shadows cling to you while nature wields to you. You, my dear little brother, are cursed by the gods to bring turmoil wherever you go. You, princeling, are truly the Blood Prince."
"The Blood Prince," the youngest one murmured, running his fingers along his bow, "the Blood Prince, hmm. Maybe I am the Blood Prince."
The prince stayed under the tree for the rest of that day, contemplating his fate and the fate of his people and resigning to the fact that he was, indeed, the Blood Prince. And as that prince rested, dark forces worked diligently, gathering strength and preparing for the coming of the Blood Prince and the Prince of Light who would either lead or defeat them. While its dark fingers stretched throughout the world, the prince let his own fingers memorize his bow, preparing for the time when he would use it against more enemies.
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