Title: If Perhaps in Hope, I shall Find Peace
Storyline: LotR, mostly TtT
Characters: Legolas
Paring: None
Rating: PG13
Series: One Shot
Archive: Sure, let me know where.
Summary: For one never meant for such darkness the burden of war is heavy indeed.
A/N & Warnings: Set mostly after the battle for Helm's Deep. Legolas dwells after the battle. Done for ringprov challenge number 18: Word and mood challenge: soldier, thought, history, return; accepting
Time limit of 30 minutes. In Ringprov at Livejournal.com
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the idea for the story, all characters belong to Tolkien.



There can be no peace in these times of darkness and pain, so many knew this bitter truth. These were the days when hope was but a dying flicker and the eves when it became all too ease to become lost in your own sorrows. Among all the masses gathered after the battle behind them, weary creatures edged bloody by swords crossed and foes beaten, only a single form stood apart. Eyes of perfect green, orbs that glistened with the dew-kissed sparkle of dawn upon the morning grass, were now cast downward. It was this figure, this form cast alone in the dark, that saw the fields of red before him with a mind vastly more complex than any human. For, he was not of their race, the creatures that now scurried about with cheered smiles over a battle won. He was of the fair race, those created for things both beautiful and perfect. He was a world apart from them, even now he could not lift his voice in victory as so many of them had.

It was simple enough for them, too simple in fact, to think only of the victory. He was not so fortunate, for he had too many other troubles on his mind. He thought, as was often his way, about what had come to pass in terms of loss and broken sorrows. Never would those emerald orbs mist with emotion, for his kind were not of that breed, but they would haze with something akin to sorrow. His hands, pale flesh as flawless as if it had been carved from stone, was now marred with sticky crimson. His fingers bruised from holding his weapons too tightly, fearful if they let up that grasp for but an instant death would snap cold jaws across his ivory throat. While the bruises would fade quickly, the marks within would not. Those were wounds that would bleed in his soul forevermore. Elves were never meant for such things, for such pain of the mind and body, such suffering. He was driven to solitude, nothing else could calm the demons that haunted him now. And as he stood, alone, apart, even from his own kin among the army, he became lost in dim memory.

It was the calling of the past, that which his kin never forget, that had laid claim to his thoughts now. He felt himself return, in spirit at least, to the days of his childhood and the merriment that went with it. Those were long hours learning the paths of the forests and feeling the comforting caress of the wind upon his golden locks. So long past, so much history lost since then. How long ago had it been when he had laughed for the simple joy of it? Had it been another lifetime ago that he had smiled over some silly joke, or had turned his gaze away in some fresh pain that was still so pure and innocent? How long ago had it been since he had known the crushing talons of war bury themselves within his weary soul and try to pull it free of his body, to damn him to a Hell spawned of his own agony? It was too long ago, too long to ever return to once more; in his heart he knew this and feared it.

He was a soldier, lost and bloody in a world of men. His kind were creatures of intelligence and crafty reasoning, not pure bloodshed and rage. Yet, that was what he had become. Could he even claim to be Elven anymore, or was his true self washed away in the waves of blood that were left in his wake? He knew all too well that his cause was right; his path was one that must be walked for the good of all. Just as others like himself had tasted the cold chill of the blade so too would he if it were in the name of keeping these lands free. He was a prince, a warrior, an elf, but felt in his heart that he could be none fully. His hands, slender and delicate, were never meant to split the side of a foe and send their life spilling in a pool at their feet. But, he still stood, pain in his perfect eyes, no expression on his chiseled features, amidst the fields of a battle now won. At what price, he wondered, how many souls were lost here? His history was broken now; the history of his kind was fading away with the footsteps they no longer placed upon these lonely fields and empty forest floors. He was a soldier, as his kind were never meant to be, but still he fought. Something was burning in inhuman eyes, he still held to some spark of hope. It was not hope that one day he would go home, that he would put these bloody days behind him and return to a life of peace in golden forests, nor was it the hope that he would find some purpose within the wars of men. His hope was for something far more simple, he longed to battle for a world that was slowing dying away, so that perhaps when at last he placed his sword away the sun would be lifting upon a new world. In that moment, perfect eyes did indeed mist with rare emotion, accepting for now the role he must play as this dark chapter of history came to an end, and above all else hopeful that the chapter that would be written next would be one of light and peace.

(c) J. Gaines, 2003