Title: Of Men and Morning Light
Storyline: TtT
Characters: Legolas, Aragorn
Paring: None
Rating: PG13
Series: One Shot
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Summary: An elf knows little of death, but they do understand the twinge of bitterness and one elf feels it grow stronger as the sun rises on the battle of Helm's Deep.
A/N & Warnings: Spoilers for TtT.
Disclaimer: I own only the story idea, not the characters.
It is an odd thing, to feel so human when one is not. It is the type of realization that comes to a person when they open their eyes to the world and feel the bite of emotion that for so long has been hidden under a calm exterior. In time it begins to feel as though shutting your eyes to the world and forgetting what it is to feel is simply the only way to survive. For a being set apart, trailing the lines between eternity with little thought to the passage of time, trivial things such as changes in the world hardly linger in the mind. And this was how he saw the world, through eyes ageless and mind soothed with the knowledge that forever was truly possible for him. It had always been that the fair Prince of Mirkwood saw the world through Elven eyes, sight that had watched the world change around him while he remained the same. There was bitterness to that truth though, and the Elf dwelled on it as he made his way through the fields still laden with blood from the battle hours before. His thin form picked its way through the carnage, slender hand coming to rest from time to time upon one of the bodies of those who had been his foes to pluck an arrow from the leathery skin, and if it were not for the slight mar of blood upon his boots one would have never thought him a part of such evils.
This was another thing to dwell upon, Legolas mused as he set himself to the task of straightening the feathers of a retrieved arrow, just what part he played in this dark game. A member of a Fellowship, indeed, but for what purpose. Ordered here, though there was some choice of his own involved. He fought, for his own honor, as well as the honor of his kin. Beyond that, he saw little point to the task he found himself within. Already his body was weary, even if he did not show this. His own pain was more from loss than for simple wounds, the Elven kind felt pain of grief like the bite of a knife. He had seen others like himself flicker away to dark death, driven there by their broken attachments to others and the though made him uneasy. He had spent enough grief this journey, though he feared more was still to come. He fared worse than the rest of the Fellowship in that aspect. They would hurt for the loss of their companions, they would shed tears, and then they would pick up their weapons and fight again. Only he, the graceful and ageless Elf would suffer physical ill from his losses. Though it did seem only fair in his eyes, for he would suffer little else physically.
The thought drew his mind away to those who did come to harm in this quest, the slight wounds that carved such deadly gaps in mortal life. He thought first of the Ranger, the one who he had known long, and well. His brother in arms, his friend. Already he had seen the worn look in Aragorn's dark eyes, the blood that seeped from his mortal body threatened to steal his life away in slow ebbs. This troubled Legolas, as it often had in battle alongside the Ranger. He was reminded the frail nature of the human body, and he was often certain that his friend would not live to see the turn of battle. Yet, he always did, with a fierce determination that the Elf had to admire. Warrior's spirit often seemed the only thing that kept the steady feet of Aragorn under him and settled upon the firm earth. Legolas pondered, somewhere deep within a place in his mind that he reserved for the darkest of thoughts, if the human would last the battle. The thought filled him with grief once again, a well of painful ache that slid through his body like thin blade. The spell was broken by the voices of the men nearby, laughing as they pushed aside the body of a fallen foe. Slight brows furrowed as the Prince frowned to himself, once more the flicker of doubt in these humans lit in his soul.
He knew all too well himself the changes in this world were going to reshape this land, regardless. And in his heart he knew it was simply trying to find the lesser of two evils. Men would rule the world once looked after by his kind, and they would change so much of it. Somewhere, deep in his soul, Legolas felt a wave of anger so sharp it made his soft eyes grown dark. It was the foolishness of men that had brought them to this place of death and fear, and now it had been decided to turn the world of green forests and beautiful wild places over to the very creatures that destroyed it with their arrogance. He was seething, even as he reached down to jerk an arrow from one of the bodies, his mind darkened by a sort of poison. It made him ill, like the steady drag of some sickness he could not shake. His slender hand, still smooth and paled even after the bloody battle, closed tightly around the arrow's shaft to the point of breaking it. He saw all too well in his mind's eye what the world of men would do to the perfect places of Middle Earth. He knew that much by simply looking at the bloody field before him. It was all in the name of the foolishness of men, the deaths and pain. His own kind had played a part in this ordeal, he was aware of this much, but they were not the ones to begin it. Legolas' mind turned over the thoughts of growing hatred that were blossoming there, rage towards the humans who had caused such agony to all. There was no dark force at work here, simply the battle-worn mind of a saddened heart near the edge of despair. His hand tightened grip once more, this time snapping the thin reed-like shaft of the arrow he held. Splinters of wood sank into ivory skin and caused crimson to well across his closed palm, but he took no note of it. He could not see the point of anything now, so much lost, nothing could ever be whole again. His mind was slipping into darker thoughts when a touch to his narrow shoulder startled him.
Jerking his gaze upward, his own eyes met with the dark orbs of the Ranger. The man studied the grim visage of his companion for a lingering moment before his voice found the air.
"Legolas, something troubles you deeply, your eyes speak of ill thoughts." The words were a simple question voiced in Elven to keep the prying ears of those nearby at bay, but the Elf felt the desire to lash out all the more because of them.
"What would you have to say of ill thoughts? Are there not enough of those as it stands, here in the blood-soaked morning break?"
Legolas' voice almost hissed as he spoke and Aragorn was taken back, unused to the harsh tones that rang in the air because they sounded so out of place in the normally graced and soft language of the Elves. For a moment the man was silent, eyes searching the grounds around them. It seemed a weary weight settled across the shoulders of the man who had only hours before rejoiced in the battle's bloody end. The Elf though would have none of the thoughts he assumed were dancing in the mind of Aragorn, and he moved to turn his attentions back to the task at hand. As he took a step away a voice greeted him, words tired and steady, spoken in a tone of reserved pain.
"Indeed, too much blood and broken lives for the winds to ever carry a friendly breeze once more. It would feel all for naught if not for the growing ache in my heart to see the land below my feet clear of these crimson rivers."
The words stilled the rage within the mind of the elf, for he heard them as true and purposed. His eyes grew half shut then, many things resting in his thoughts. His gaze fell upon the lifting of the sun, the clouds slipping away to reveal the once red tinted sky now a soft gold hued with silver white morning mist. There was something in that vision before him that gave him comfort, coupled with the words of the man he had known for many years as a close companion, the man he knew would be King, if things were to come to pass as they were fated. He knew with a heavy heart that his kind was fading away from these lands, and soon he too would step away from the shores and places he had known all his life. What he feared was what would be left behind, all in the care of men. Yet, somehow, he felt a flicker of hope, at least in the heart of men. He was still soundless as Aragorn moved to stand at his side, torn and marred hand coming to rest on his shoulder once more.
"It is not a time for dark thoughts, it is a moment to catch a breath and prepare for what must be done next. And it is such a perfect morn, it almost lightens my heart to see the light shimmer so bright."
Aragorn's words settled in his mind and he was drawn to thoughts of things which had come to pass, and then to things yet to be. The world was changing, of that the elf was certain. And he knew full well that the dusky evening was settling on his own kind's time here, the morning was lifting on the time of men. Yet, with the courage men he had seen the last days, and the steady grip on his shoulder that spoke silent promises to look after a world so much in dire need of aid the morning did seem more welcoming. He did not smile, his heart was still too heavy for this, but Legolas offered words as he clasped a hand against his brother in arms' own.
"Yes, perhaps this morning is going to rise on a brighter day than I once thought, it seems that some light still burns strongly."
And if nothing else, Legolas could hope for that much.
(c) J. Gaines, 2003