Death is not quiet. It is not gentle, nor peaceful, nor soft; it comes roaring towards you, teeth bared and claws unsheathed. It pulls at you until you are torn into pieces. It is painful, and loud, and harsh.
Legolas had seen it many times before, but that was not enough to prepare him for it. When the spider bit, severing his carotid artery and spraying his life blood against the trees, he felt every bit of it. The pain was agonizing, but there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the impact of his back against the hard forest floor, heard someone shout his name in a panic, but his vision was already fading and he knew there was no hope for him. He would die here. He tried to gasp out a last word, but only blood gurgled out of his mouth. Soon, the bleeding was too much and he slipped away.
Darkness.
Darkness all around him, any spark of light seemed to be sucked out of the world. A putrid smell filled his sensitive nose, the stench of death and blood mixed with decay. He could hear hushed whispers if he strained his ears hard enough, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.
He could never remember what truly happened, there was a blank spot in his memory between when he died and when he woke up, but he knew there must have been something there besides the darkness. For when the sun rose over Mirkwood, splashing pink and orange across the horizon, he sat up on a soft bed, gasping, his life returned to him.