The dark landscape stretched out before him, rolling hills and jagged rocks, the grass shivering in sudden gusts of wind. Trees were few and far between in this land, but he could still feel them, their remote voices calling softly to him, recognising him for what he was.
Legolas sighed, breaking the silence that stretched between him and Gandalf. "I apologise, Mithrandir," he whispered. "In truth, I do not even know how to explain. Where to begin."
"At the start, my dear Elf," Gandalf said softly, stretching out a gnarled hand to pat him gently on the shoulder. Legolas drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them close. He appreciated the small comfort, the strong and steady presence of the Wizard beside him, the fact that even now he was not pushing him.
"I would, if I knew where that was," Legolas said, a fragile smile tugging at his lips. How long had it been since he'd felt safe enough to smile? A miracle in itself. But he was safe with Gandalf, that was a certainty in his suddenly uncertain world. He had known him since he was a small elfling, still figuring out his place in the world, confused by his mixed heritage and complicated family. Gandalf had always had a knack for showing up when he had a particularly difficult problem to solve, and for always putting him on the right track once more.
This was different however: the consequences of what he had seen reached farther than Legolas could even begin to contemplate, he was sure. What he had experienced, the dark future that awaited, it would swallow the world once more if no one stopped it. But what if, in revealing what he knew now to Mithrandir, he created something worse? Such was the dilemma that warred in his mind now.
Fear gripped his heart, sudden and alarming. Prevent what you can, the fear whispered to him. Someone needs to know. "I do not think we should take to the slopes of Caradhras. The Hobbits will not handle the cold and snow well, and the mountains are fraught with perils. We could easily encounter any number of dangers on those narrow paths; snowstorms and—" he broke off, unable to think of the word he sought in Westron. "Ai, Mithrandir, where the snow comes down the slopes…snow-flood?"
"An avalanche?" Gandalf's tone was vaguely amused.
"Avalanche," Legolas rolled the word in his mouth, stretching the syllables and committing them to memory once more. He could remember it now: in Boromir's voice, a shouted warning, before the snow had thundered down the mountainside impossibly fast. Suffocating, thick snow all around him, battering his body even as he struggled against it. Avalanche. A small word for such a harrowing experience. Westron words often felt too small in his mouth, almost lacking somehow.
"Aragorn and I have discussed such dangers, Legolas," Gandalf explained patiently. "And we all agreed that it was the safest road of our choices. Not safe, but safer." He frowned. "What other path would you have us take?
Legolas shook his head. "I do not know, I…just that Caradhras will be the wrong choice for us. Perhaps Boromir is correct after all, perhaps the Gap of Rohan should be our path. We do not need to fear Saruman, his attention is not on us at all, even if he does send his crebain to spy. His focus is bent almost entirely on Aran Thèoden— "
The change in Gandalf's countenance was immediate and terrible, a flare of his great power in his eyes and in his bearing. Legolas shrank back from him in alarm. "Legolas Greenleaf," Gandalf said, in a voice, which, although pitched low so as to not disturb those members of the Fellowship still asleep, still rang with power. "How did you come to know this? How do you know the mind and plans of Saruman so plainly?"
He braced himself for a blow, curling tighter in on himself, as his words stopped dead in his throat. His body sang with a familiar tension, waiting for the rain of torment that was sure to come. He had not meant to anger Gandalf, he had spoken without thought, lulled by the security he must have imagined. His instincts screamed in conflict with each other: run and hide, no, weather the torture and keep silent, no, tell him everything he wants to know, no, lie to him!
"Legolas," Gandalf's hands gripped his arms, startling him into meeting that impossibly deep blue gaze. "Legolas, I must understand how you came to know this. If you have been compromised, if your mind is no longer your own, if this Quest is compromised, I must know. You must tell me. Speak!"
The compulsion washed over him, as gentle as a wave, tugging words of truth to the fore. So very different from the whispers of the Ring, so very different from the conniving games of the Iron King, but he still bitterly resented its use. "It is what happened last time," the words forced themselves out from between clenched teeth, even as he fought to resist. Then abruptly, the compulsion vanished and the tension rushed out of him in relief. He gasped down a desperate breath, chest heaving. Never again. He would never allow someone to take his mind like that again.
The Wizard before him backed away, just a little, confusion gentling his features, even as pity stirred in his eyes. "Last time? You have…?"
"I have done this before, Mithrandir," the words spilled from his mouth, too fast to stop, even if he had wanted to, a whispered torrent of truth. "All of the Quest, every step. From now until our bitter failure and the consequences, oh Mithrandir, it was awful. I could not stop him, I did not see, none of us did until it was too late. It had taken him and we were lost." Tears began to slide, unchecked, down his cheeks, splattering onto his tunics. How his head ached. "I do not even remember where it all went wrong. I have forgotten so much. It must have been building for months, but there were so many other things happening that I did not notice. All the lies he must have told me, I cannot even begin to fathom how many he must have told himself. And then there was nothing I could do, I tried, believe me I tried. I saved who I could. But in the end…I died too."
Gandalf stared at him, his expression too complex for Legolas' tired mind to puzzle out. And then slowly, the ancient Wizard drew closer to him again, sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, letting the weary Elf lean against him in wordless comfort. Slowly, Legolas remembered that soon, horrifically soon, the Fellowship would lose Gandalf. Not forever, but at their most desperate hour, when his wisdom might have kept them together. Was that the defining moment? Was that when it had gone so wrong?
"If you have returned to us," Gandalf said, turning his gaze to the stars, or perhaps even, further still, "from beyond the veil of death, then the Valar must have some purpose yet for you to fulfil."
Legolas blinked in confusion. "You…you believe me?"
"There is no lie in your eyes," Gandalf said simply. "The pieces of memory you shared me with when you first fell, the desperation and the confusion, and your behaviour since…they all tell a story, my friend. They tell a terrible tale of a future that can never be allowed to come again, of the horrors you have been forced to endure. I regret that you must retread your steps with us again. But you are not the first Elf to return from beyond the veil, you know, nor, should the prophecies of Mandos prove true, will you be the last to be returned from death."
Lord Glorfindel. There had always been whispered rumours in his homeland about the golden-haired Ñoldo, and that the mild-mannered Glorfindel that resided in Elrond's house was the Glorfindel of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer, returned to life. Certainly the powers that he seemed to possess, the way he had faced the Nazgûl to save Frodo's life, he was more than he appeared. It was a small comfort, in a way, to know that he was not as alone as he'd feared.
"What you say troubles me more," Gandalf continued, his expression becoming serious once again. "I regret that I must ask you to share it with me in greater detail, for I can see it causes you great pain." When Legolas hesitated, Gandalf continued, "I apologise, but if we are to prevent this dark future, then I must know as much as you can recall."
"I have one condition,"
"So long as it does not endanger another, and is within my power, I will concede to it."
"You cannot tell the others, especially not Aragorn." Gandalf made to object, but Legolas quickly overrode him. "He cannot know, at least not yet. What I am going to tell you, it would…he would not believe it possible, or worse, he would and the knowing would destroy him. In truth, I would spare you from my story, for I would rather not burden anyone with what I know."
Gandalf nodded, his expression grave. "I understand. The telling will be for you to do, then, when you decide he is ready for it. The others as well. For I fear that although you might wish to keep it from them, they will begin to suspect something is wrong. They will need to know, for good or ill. I will advise you when I believe the time is right, unless you decide for yourself sooner."
Legolas sighed, fear still tight around his heart. "Then, I will tell you briefly, and you may ask me what questions you may. I cannot guarantee that I have the answers, for there is much that I was not aware of, and much that I have forgotten. Some I will not tell you, for the grief is still too near."
He shivered, his attention caught briefly by an owl swooping overhead, silent wings framed by the light of the stars. He closed his eyes for a moment, memories stirring like autumn leaves disturbed by a sudden winter's wind. And for just a second, he saw his last years stretched out before him in his mind, their order jumbled, full of gaps—
The winged crown of Gondor, resting on glossy black hair. He should be pleased but he feels only trepidation and a vague dread— Weeping in a dark cell opposite, he reaches out a hand to them through the bars, but they are too far away to reach— The intense gaze of the Lady Galadriel as she hands him a new bow, speaking into his mind, "I hope you never have to raise this against one you call friend."— Gandalf gleaming all in White, astride a white horse— the furious clash of swords, his own voice, rasping and broken, rising above the din, "Take the Lady and run! Do not look back!"— pain, endless pain, in the dark, alone.
He heard Gandalf call his name and he forced his eyes open once more. An almost inaudible whimper escaped him, and he could not bear to let himself look at Gandalf's face. He knew the pity and the sorrow he would see there, and he knew he would fall apart at such a thing. Not yet. He had to endure telling his story first, however brief he can make it. He took a deep breath, hoping to steady himself, even a little, before launching into his tale.
His voice was steady, low and grim, despite the roiling chaos he felt within. "There is no easy way to tell you what will occur. It is…January now, is it not? It seems odd to me that so much could happen in so little time, but, it will. Or, at least, it did for me." He shook his head, dismissing the tangent. "I…I can tell you that in my time, in the life I lived before, Aragorn was King by May. He took the throne of Gondor, shortly after he defeated Sauron in battle in March. That was the first time I saw him wield it openly, I cannot fathom when he took it. When it took him. The Ring." He shivered again, his tongue tripping slightly over the Ring, so deep was his fear of it embedded in his soul. He heard Gandalf's sharp intake of breath, sensed the question hanging on the air. "I do not know how it came to be, so pray, do not ask. I remember only flashes of that time. I do not know what became of Frodo and Samwise…I recall Aragorn saying that they had escaped the orcs, that they had gone to Mordor alone…but I must now wonder if that was a lie. I never saw them again after that.
"In my time, Aragorn took the Ring, and became King of Gondor and Arnor. But so quickly, it all turned wrong. He grew more quick to anger, and his compassion faded away. He became obsessed with the idea of peace, of a unified ideal kingdom, where there was never war or pain or fear. In secret, many people were arrested on false charges to use as hostages to enforce Aragorn's will in other lands, myself included. Of course, few accepted this, and our world was darkened by war once more. But Aragorn's will, and the Will of the Ring, could not be stopped. His Iron Kingdom, as it came to be known, consumed Rohan and the other realms of Men and the Shire; where they could, Elves fled to the Sea in droves, and the Dwarves hid themselves away, rebelling in secret and aiding in rescuing and hiding those who fled the wrath of the Iron King." His breath shook as he steeled himself against the tears that welled up, unbidden. "People were slaughtered, massacred, for the peace the Iron King demanded. Those who remained were bent to his will, their minds enslaved. The hostages of those who refused to bend were publicly executed periodically, as reminders of his power.
"I was the last, I do not know why. I remember the proclamation, in March, just after the Iron King's ninetieth birthday: I was to be executed, and the following day he would declare the end of the Third Age of Middle-Earth, and the beginning of the Fourth, the Age of Men. I was a symbol, to mark a final severing to his past and to effectively mark the end of a conspiracy that had never happened, save in propaganda. I died, and then…I awoke here, minutes later, as if none of it ever happened."
He fell silent, and then broke into soundless heaving sobs. How hard it was to hear himself say it, that those brutal years could be condensed so briefly, like it had been a story made up by one of their story-singers of Mirkwood, like a summary of a book that might be found in Lord Elrond's library. But he did not know how to tell him of the horrors of that time, the darkness that had consumed once fair lands, that he had feared one of his closest friends more than he feared the Dark Lord himself.
Gandalf was silent also, consumed by thought, shaken by what he had heard. He must have a thousand questions, Legolas knew, but he had no inclination to answer them now. Though he knew Gandalf would ask, he needed a moment first to recover.
"Two years you have suffered," Gandalf said softly; though Legolas had always thought it was three, he did not trust his own reckoning of mortal years. "Two years, and now they are undone as though they never were, save in your mind alone. Oh Legolas, Amdirchír, what a terrible thing."
"Please do not," Legolas interrupted, harsher than he intended, his voice rough with sorrow. "Please, Mithrandir, I cannot bear your pain too, your pity. Please, please do not."
"Then," Gandalf said gruffly, though Legolas suspected the old Wizard was fighting back his own tears. "I must ask, during all of this, where was I? For surely, I did not agree to Aragorn keeping the Ring, nor his mad plan."
And for a moment, Legolas was speechless, brows drawn in confusion as he searched his ruined memories of that dark time. Where had Mithrandir been? When had he last seen him? "You were…in Rohan? At Helm's Deep with us. And then, yes, I remember seeing you at Isengard. But then you left? I do not recall seeing you hence, certainly not after Aragorn was crowned."
"Odd, indeed. For I would not have allowed such a thing to come about if I could prevent it. I wonder where that other-me was, what he was doing while the world fell into darkness." Gandalf shook his head.
From there began a dizzying back-and-forth of questions, many of which Legolas found he could not answer sufficiently, his memory of the event either unclear or vanished from his mind entirely. The fates of Meriadoc and Boromir, he could not rightly recall, though he remember the executions of Peregrin and Gimli. He recounted which countries had surrendered to the Iron Kingdom without a fight, and which had been conquered, and which had been utterly wiped out. He was forced to recount as best he could who else was imprisoned in the dungeons with them, descriptions if he could not remember names, their inevitable deaths. As the night dragged on, Legolas wept many more times, from sorrow, from frustration, from remembered pain.
"Gandalf?" Aragorn's sleepy mumble broke into Legolas' second recounting of the defeat of Sauron. Gandalf had insisted on hearing it again, in as much detail as possible. Legolas broke off at the sound of his voice, sudden terror freezing him in place. The darkness of the night became the darkness of his cell, the winter-cold of the stone seeping into his bones. He shook his head, once, twice, sinking his hands into the soil beneath him, trying to anchor himself in the present.
Blue eyes appeared in his field of vision once more, and he felt, distantly, Gandalf's hands grasp his own. The Wizard squeezed his hands firmly, pulling him more firmly into the moment once more.
"Amdirchír." Legolas took a deep breath, letting the sound of his birth-name wash over him. "Look up, Amdirchír."
Puzzled, he followed Gandalf's gaze, towards the mountains, and then could not help but stare.
Though the mountains were cast into shadow, even the snow that capped their peaks, there was a band of swirled orange and yellow as the sun began its slow ascent. The clouds rolled lazily across the vast expanse of lightening sky, changing from the deep tones of night to fiery shades that stood out in stark contrast to the blues behind them. Purples and pinks dominated where the sun had not yet reached, but slowly night surrendered its grip to the encroaching light of day. A new dawn had broken over Middle-Earth, a day of no particular significance to most, but held one Elf enraptured, just as the stars had held the first Elves at the bay of Cuiviénen.
And Legolas, who had no tears left to shed after a night which felt as long as years, laughed at the light of the morning sun, at the rising dawn, a deep soul-shaking laughter that was sheer delight. He had not seen the sun rise since before his imprisonment, had not felt it on his skin save that brief shining moment during his execution, that he was still not sure had been a natural occurrence. It was beautiful. A massive grin spread across his face, sincere and unrestrained, rejoicing in something as simple yet breath-taking as the dawn.