Within the Leaves of Green and Ebon, a lord of the rings fanfic

Title: Within the Leaves of Green and Ebon
Storyline: LotR
Characters: Legolas, mention of others.
Paring: None
Rating: PG13
Series: One Shot
Archive: Just tell where it ends up
Summary: What if the Ring had fallen into the least likely of hands, and changed the world for the worse.
A/N & Warnings: Not canon, picks up mid-TTT and then goes off into a different direction.
Disclaimer: I only own the idea for the story, not the characters.

Middle-earth had changed so since those days when men still had hope and Hobbits took up impossible feats for the good of a world they did not even understand. Men were imperfect creatures; they let the wild world die away and never bothered to listen to its cries of pain and rage. But he heard them, turned a keen ear to every dying sunset and each birth cry of night. The world was angry at the race of Men, enraged at their careless nature and their desire for nothing more than power. The other races were almost as evil in their ways, so few bothered to care for the comfort of the world they dwelled in. Too easy had it been, before the time of Rings and quests, to simply take what one desired and give nothing in return. The world had suffered for the ignorance of the races, the cold-hearted desires of Men. The woods wept in raindrop tears and the winds howled their rage, all around the perfect places were dying away. It was of no surprise then that the Ring surfaced, with all the darkness in the world already the evil trinket had only but to will itself forth once more to began a path to its master once more. The races feared then, though it was already far too late. But, as is the way of any hopeful creature, a last effort to save the free places of Middle-earth was set into motion.

This simple task was anything but, even if it was given to such a weak group. They had hope to drive them, and faith in one another. As long as this much lasted there was no way they could be defeated. Along side they fought, Men, Elven, Hobbit, Dwarf, a group of beings so different bound together by fate. They battled alongside each other, and some died as such, falling to the shadows before their companions' eyes. There was so much blood in the world that it washed the lands in crimson and left the shadows reeking of the foul stuff. Even as more fell and the Fellowship that had been forged by great need found separate paths the winds sang songs of a new beginning, though it was hardly one anyone could have foreseen. For, when the fate of a world lies in the hands of mortals there can be nothing but failure, but to place that power in the hands of the ageless was to bring forth something far worse.

It had begun simple enough, only a flickering thought in the mind of one who was weary with battle and feeling lost in the world. He was a being of sculpted beauty and steeled will, a firm reminder of his race. A warrior who had proved his worth time and time again, a young man who longed to see a torn world once more at peace. He had stood looking over the dead after the battle he had fought with his kin alongside the forces of Men. He had been the first to voice, in that silvered tongue of his, how futile this fight would prove. And he had been the first lashed out at by a Man he once thought of as a dear friend, a brother in arms. He also was the first to see a new path in the great war that was raging. The race of Men would fail; he had seen that much burning in the eyes of Aragorn. For while the man held tight to some hope that things would work out, he abandoned the one key to their victory into the hands of two Hobbits. Simple creatures, barely able to survive with the help of the Fellowship, certain to die alone. It was the weakness of Men, he had decided in that moment as he had knelt down beside the stilled body of Haldir, which would doom them all to something worse than death.

So it was in cover of silence while the worn warriors had been trying to regroup that he had set out alone, certain in the idea that he would find an end to the quest he saw as all but forgotten by the rest. He did not linger to say farewell, nor did he look back. He journeyed for the fate of this world, the fate of his people. Deep in his heart the he felt his own kind's fading away was the fault of Men and their foolhardy ways. This was why he never looked back, why he walked away when they had dire need of him. It did not trouble him that more would fall without his aid, for it was set in his mind that soon none would fall ever again. He had but to make things right in the only way he was certain to work. The fair warrior of his people intended to set things correct the darkness in this world even if no one else would take up the path. He would save this world yet, alone if he must, and his wisdom would guide him. It was foolish to put so much in the hands of a creature such as a Hobbit, even more foolish to think the race of Men ready for such a heavy weight upon their weak shoulders.

It was a difficult path for a single being, one riddled with dangers. Yet, he was of the ageless race and his wisdom was great. The woods themselves aided him by lighting his path, the rushing waters of the rivers calmed to allow him passage. He moved as a shadow, in and out of the light he once bathed in with such a lustful eagerness for that it bordered sinful. His mind was set upon a single idea, a single object, the Ring that now lay with two little Hobbits. Spurred on by the memories of the deaths he still saw clearly in his mind's eye, so intend on stilling that tide of evil that his mind would open to nothing else. What a Fellowship could not do a single being did with ease, quickly finding the Hobbits on the outskirts of marshes heavy with the stink of death. It was a wary meeting, so much had changed within them all that trust was not something that came with ease. In the end it was that silvered tongue, promising the warmth of home and old friends once more that swayed them, and it was then that all of Middle-earth changed. In the moment that the pale fist clasped around that simple token of gold the skies above poured down with a heavy rain. It was the rebirth of a tired land, and the death of so much.

The sky no longer was cast in soft hues of blues during waking hours and peaceful violets in dark of night. Now the world had become a wild place filled with a beauty that could not be matched, perfection in a stern rule. Where once shadows settled only leaves grow, proud and coiling like some serpent ready to strike. The world of Men is gone; the time of Hobbits and quests has been over for so long that few remember. The trees sang of praises, lovely voices heard only by those who have the ears to listen. Yet, for the one who rules over this perfect place the trees are not the only whispering that filled his weary mind. There are mummers of darkness, pleading to be set free. He pushes them aside, turning instead to adding more beauty to his kingdom that spans an entire world. The trees reach the skies, the rivers roar with power, and the skies above swell with anticipation of the next moment when they can thunder down the rage of their master.

Long since have the great cities and walls built by Men fallen, eaten away by the force of the vines and grasses ripping through them to pull apart stone bones and leave only mossy carpets in their wake. The Men themselves have faded mostly, a few lie scattered here and there. This is not their world now; it is too difficult for their race to find any place of comfort here. The world they once dwelled in now turns away with a glare as sharp as the needle frost that bites in the harsh winters. Too long past did the last real King of Men die away, lost before his time in a battle to undo the wrong done. Felled by a stroke from one he once called brother in arms, all for the sake of a twisted sense of power. Now the race of Men scurries about as though insects in the world of Middle-earth, and in truth they almost are. Looked down upon for their deeds, their thoughts of progress at the death of the earth, they have no place here. Only a few still struggle, most have gone to the peace of death years before. And of those who still live most long for that silent peace more with each passing day.

The quiet places, the homes to the simple folk such as Hobbits still remain but are no longer so quiet. The savage beauty that has filled the rest of the world has spilled over in their home as well, such a harsh life for such gentle creatures. The have become, in a way, a second race of Men. The hide away and fight each day to stay a part of this new world, and each day lose their grip more and more. Once, two Hobbits were turned away for a mistake made, believing in an old companion and sending much of Middle-earth to ruin in that single act. They did indeed turn the tides of the war, but not as they would have wished. Many years have passed since they too fell to death, the fight then picked up by those who once joined them in their quest. Even the efforts of those warriors proved little enough when the air itself watched and the roots told secrets to their king. The soft meadows of the Shire now fields of spines and curled roots to keep the inhabitants confined, allowed to live only by the humor of the ruler of Middle-earth. Though those who still remember the days before that terrible moment hardly think of it as living anymore.

Even the mountain caves have fallen away, torn apart to make room for more growth and green things. Those who once lived there, the Dwarf race, now gone. They were gone before the others; with nothing left to hold to they simply let go of life. One fought still, beside a single Man intent on freeing the Ring once more. He fell by the forest's spiny hands, never to rise again. If the realm of Middle-earth bothered to mourn the Dwarven race it was not openly. As though the wild places rejoiced the moment those mountains were pulled away to leave only bones and hollow memories, so came the end of that race. It was a cruel fate, even in this world of pristine perfection, but one that was suffered by many.

And in the place of everything else there is life, eternal and breathtaking, for that is how he willed it to be. The shadows are all driven away, the dark Lord gone, replaced by a new Lord, one of shimmering light. To look upon him is to see everything Middle-earth has become. Stilled, alive, splendor that could never be measured, a ruler worthy of this realm. He sits upon a throne of leaves coiled about him like some familiar pet, emerald eyes forever looking upon the wonder of his own creation. There is no war, no pain, nothing but flawlessness magnificence now, all crafted by his slender hand. He is stern and unwavering, ruling his lands with the ageless wisdom of his kind. This is his destiny, one he set into motion himself in centuries past when he sought to save a world all by himself and found that there was no saving this place. Instead, he took his chance and remade that dismal place of broken lies into something it never could have been before and would be forevermore.

Once, there had been shadows and the creeping of darkness that would poison a soul even with the strongest resolve. There had been war and death, pain and bloodshed that painted the world in hues of red. Now the world was a place tinted in greens, the colors of life. Where once many races struggled to survive now only a single race rules them all, a race of intellect and fairness of both body and mind. Where once forests were burned to the ground to fuel the will of a dark Lord now the trees grow high and proud as the reach to the skies to please their Lord. They grow so high now that they almost blot out the sky with their leaves. And the leaves the coil and creep upon the earth slowly twist together more with each passing year until they cast their own shadows, ebon richer than any night. And as they coil and choke the world with perfection a ruler sits upon his throne and watches his undying lands. For he sees everything, watches the life thrive and grow untended by the progress of Men, the encouragement of Hobbits, or the axes of Dwarves. He still sits upon his throne as the wild world speaks to him, always listening to the soft utters that call his name, Legolas. The winds sing their praise as they grow stronger every day and as time slowly passes it becomes more and more difficult to tell where the voices come from, on the wings of the breeze, or from somewhere deep within that cold circle of fiery gold.