This concept of fan fiction was created by SkyleafAlchemist1, whom has given their permission for me to use.
I do not own Lord of the Rings, or the concept of this particular fan fiction.
A sudden, exceedingly bright light burned his sensitive eyes. On instinct alone, Legolas dropped the object and threw up an arm to sheild his eyes. Then, for a moment, everything was dark. Everything was silent. He felt as though he were floating in a river, the current dragging at him, pulling him to its end and having him obey its will.
A bitter cold wind blew up against his face, startling him, and he smelled wet ash and day old smoke. His stomached dropped as he felt like he was tumbling through open air, like he had been thrown from a horse. He forced his eyes open in time to see a blackened tree with no leaves just feet below, the ground rushing up to meet him.
I am falling.
As he hit the dead, dried branches, his hands scrabbled to find purchase, breaking off several limbs in the process, to slow his decent. Fear was clouding his mind, becuase he knew that if he fell from this hieght he would break his neck, or worse. The branches cut into his soft palms, and arms, scratching his face and brusing his legs. His hand enclosed on a branch, and his shoulder was wrenched horribly. With a pounding heart, a sigh of relief escaped and his eyes shut on their own accord. A creaking sound made his head snap upwards, just in time to see the limb break under his weight.
He fell ten feet to his face, an arm under his chest. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, chest heaving and feeling slightly nauseaous. He took in his surroundings once they stopped spinning. He slowly stood, cradling his arm to his chesk. It pulsed with a hot pain, but he knew it wasn't broken. The sky was dark, stars shining through thin whisps of clouds.
It had just been mid-morning, he thought in confusion. How is it already night?
For a moment, nothing around him made any sence. But slowly, his shocked mind made the connection. He twisted around, eyes searching everywhere at once. He felt panic clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. The trees. They had all been burned, most of them to the ground.
Sharp, hot agony coursed through his very soul. His breath was stolen as sever dizzyness set in He dropped to his knees, eyes darting about faster and faster, but no longer really seeing. The trees, they were gone. He looked up at the tree behind him. It was so badly disfigured that he could hardly tell what type of tree it had been. It seethed with unnatural rage, which Legolas could taste, like blood on a blade. Tears formed in his eyes, heaving large breaths but not breathing. Trees. They were the most gentle of creatures. They knew not the pain and suffering of those around them. They merely provided comfort and shelter to anyone!
A cold, bitter wind picked up, howling through the valley, screaching in horrid agony of missing its friends and making him shutter. He looked back to the tree, whispering, "Mellon nin. What happened? Who did this?"
Where am I? How did I get here? Who would do this?
The branches swayed and crackled in the wind, threatening to break at the light pressure the wind gave. It hissed delcarations that were hoarse and gargled. As Legolas listened, his pale face turned ashen, twisting into agonized confusion. He almost failed in understanding, but he knew that he had heard wrong. "Aragorn would never - "
The tree - Oak, he realized dumbly - brought its branches down with the sudden speed and ferocity of a giant, schreeching in anguish and betrayal. Leoglas barely dodged it in time, rolling down a slight slope, hands up in surrender, "P-Please! I do not understand! Aragorn is a dear friend of mine. He would never- "
The tree shrieked, suddenly straining against its roots, bloodlust emminating from it so strongly that Legolas stumbled backwards in numbed shock, eyes locked on it. He found himself staggaring an almost-familair looking pathway. He half-fell onto the main path, seeing not just any crest of a hill, the grass scortched and ground muddied.
No, he thought in horror, already rushing up the embankment, No, please, no! Not Mirkwood! His hopes shattered and his knees buckled, his insides tearing apart at the sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head and trying not to believe what he was seeing. The mere though sent his head reeling and his stomach twisting, his heart aching in the most painful way possible. Above him, setting on the second hill, sat his home.
Or, at least, what was left of it.
The walls were crumbling, smashed and leaning at odd angles. Shrouded in mist and fog, it looked like a forgotten, century old mosoleum. It looked completly deserted. With his keen eyesight, he had seen smears of blood and peices of armour scattered along the outside of the castel. Elven armour. Grief crashed down around him, nearly drowing him choking sorrow. He was on the very edge of losing the battle within himself, when the tree began to sing, off key and quite insanly, of misery and murder, of defeat and of lost survivors.
He, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of the elevn King Thranduil, did not know the word defeat. He pushed down evey emotion, sliding a marbel lid overtop. He would let the grief come in time. On weakened and trembling legs, he stood. With a heavy heart and hurting shoulder, he began to walk, slowly picking up his pace as he went. Survivors. There could be survivors. There has to be!
He ran full tilt down the rest of the hill and mounted the next with the same neck-break speed. His pack bounced painfully on his shoulder, his arrows rocking in their quiver. His sword weight down his right side and his bow slipped into the palm of his bleeding hand. He was glad he hadn't, somehow, lost them in the fall. He nearly slipped in the mud several times, just barely catching himself each time.
He reached the front gate, seeing blood enrusted atop the mud, so dark and rich despite it being dried. He stopped short of the first pool of it, just feet away from the gate. Just a half-hour ago, he had been greeted by the gaurd named Estellra. His wife had just given birth to twins, a rareity in the elvish world. Hesitantly, he crept forward, going around the smears of blood and careful not to step in any of it. Just the thought made him want to retch.
He walked into the recpetion garden. There were no budding flowers, no growing saplings, no leaves or vines, not even weeds. The fountain, which was off to the side and agianst the wall, where he had spent time reading when he was young, was crushed under a bolder, fallen bows and arrows trampled around it. Fog curled around his knees, too thick to see the ground. It was damp, and it was cold. The place smelled of fear and death, of desperation and violence. The dim moonlight gave off littl light. There was an unnatural stillness and quiet about the place that had his teeth on edge.
Attacked, he forced himself to think, to work through the denial and pain. He tried to surpress the images his mind was trying to conjure. My people had been attacked. By the Valar!...Why?
WHY?!
-XX-
He had searched every room in the castel, stables and guest apartments, buy the time the sun had risen. He leaned against a wall for support while watching the sun rise, tears shimmering in her eyes. He slid down, crumpling and trying surpress the grief. There had been no one. No bodies, no elves. No animals, no trees. From what he could gather, from the amour and fallen weapons, it hadn't been orcs.
It had been Men.
He shook his head, blond locks of hair swinging wildly. He bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. He looked up at the sun rise and sucked in a ragged breath, tears slipping down his cold cheeks, and stinging the cuts, What if my brothers are dead? My Ada? What if my friends had perished, as well? Why did Men attack us? We had been allies for many years now. He squeezed his eyes shut, head resting against the wall, I don't understand.
It had been Aragorn, the Oak's words whispered in his ear.
He made a fist, his fingers digging into the jagged wound on his hand. He had yet to treat it, but it had stopped bleeding. The pain forced his mind away from the darker places. No. His brother of the soul would never - never! - do such a thing! That was the truth, he knew. He pulled his hood up, the sun suddenly too bright for his eyes.
The sound of horses drew his attention. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his tears and looked out the hoses were dark in color, the riders having their hoods up. But he knew by their weapons and by the way that they seperated, looking and scavenging fallen elen weapons, that they were not elves.
Men.
His insides lurched before the blood rage set in. It boiled under his faire skin and churned in his deep eyes, hate flaring in his gut so sharp and hot that he thought he might burst into flames at any given moment. He strung his bow with three arrows without thinking, aimed. All three hit their mark. The men fell and he was ready with three more arrows before the men could react.
Down, went another three.
The men dismounted and ran for cover, trying to find where the arrows were coming from. There was easily another thirdteen of them, and he kept firing. Every arrow hit its intended target until there were only five. His next shot caught a man in the face, making him crumple sideways and into a large puddle, sending up a spray of watery redness.
He notched another two arrows, only to be tackled from the side.
His bow skidded across the cracked and dusty floor, far from his reach. His head hit the ground with a sick noise and his world exploded in white hot pain. He struggled with the man atop of him, throwing a near-blind punch and landing it. He brought his legs up and kicked the man off, rolling to his feet, watching as his assailant held his face, still covered by a hood. His hand came away slick with blood. The man charged, fist raised.
Hands grabbed him from behind, so he threw the assailant over his shoulder. The man rolled into a crocuh, holding his shoulder and snarling. Legolas then got his knee kicked out by yet another attacker from behind. The pain was near mind numbing, making him drop to his knees as hands held him in an iron grip, wrenching his arms behind his back and tying them.
The original attacker walked up to him with the authority of a king and ripped Legolas's hood down to expose his face. The world tilted around him, the edges blurring. The man stilled, a shocked, sharp intake of breath emminating from him. His whole body locked, going ridgid, as though he had just been slapped.
"What is this?"
Relief sank into the elen prince's body as he heard the voice of his brother, as the man pulled down his hood. "Aragorn. Thank the Valar!"
A blow caught him with enough force to rock him onto his heels and taste fresh blood. Dizzyness swept up within him and he couldn't connect what was happening. Aragorn garbbed his friend by the hair and forced him to half-stand, and snarled in a low voice, "How dare you wear his face?"
Legolas felt as though ice had been shoved down into his soul, staring at his friend in fear and pain. Aragon's hatred was thick enough to smell and Legolas found himself shying away from him. There was numbed fear in his voice, as he winced, "Wear whose face?! I am Legolas! Mellon nin, don't tell me you've lost your memory falling into another ravine."
Argorn put a blade against his throat, and he felt the stinging kiss of it slicing a bit into his skin. There was a killing intent in his brother's eyes and Legolas's captors tightened their grip as he winced away. Aragorn growled, "You have but one minute to prove it. Good luck, though. My friend, Prince Legolas, died weeks ago."