Title: When the World Ends
Rating: R
Summary: About 500 years after RotK Legolas is the only elf still in MiddleEarth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signalling the end, Legolas starts to wish he had left for the Valinor until he sees someone he didn't expect holding the key to the world's salvation... if they can ever figure out how to make it work. A/L slash
Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of The Silmarillion
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing is owned by me. Owned by me is nothing. I don't even own the title, it's from the DMB song of the same name.
Author's Note: This is my first LotR fic, be gentle. In fact this is my first /real/ slash fic. *Kicks The Duke Diaries into the closet only to have many skeletons fall out. Shoves everything back in and continues* Erm... yeah. I'm still missing a beta (the last one ran off to Nepal to get away from me) so if anyone wants to beta my stuff I will love you for eternity.
Chapter I
The sunlight shone through tiny pinholes in the lush canopy. The dots of light displayed Lothlorien as a pointalist painting, each sunkissed dapple adding to the beauty of the abandoned forest. The elegant city of old amongst the trees was utterly empty aside from the lone elf traversing the now delapidated system of causeways and apartments. The once proud elvish architecture had fallen into a state of disrepair, elegant banisters now a ramshackle hazard for anyone who leaned against them. The arial houses were splintering and littered with a thick blanket of soggy refuse. A few secluded structures retained their original glory, and this was where the Golden Ghost resided. At least this was where he resided now, he had been spotted in the woods just outside of Minas Tirith or on the outskirts of the Fangorn Forest just as many times as he had been spotted here. Never the less, whenever anyone mentioned the Golden Ghost, or went on quest to find the mythical personage, he was always said to make Lothlorien his home.
Ne'er had a quest after him been profitable, all that was ever seen of the Ghost was a flash of champagne colored hair, or sapphire eyes in an otherwise uninhabited forest or his distinctive arrow lodged in the earth. Many a sad ballad had been composed of the mysterious figure and reasons for his hermit life. Some said he was a great wizard exiled from his order and hiding from arrest. Other believed him to be a shapechanger, while still more believed him to be an actual phantom who patrolled the woods keeping justice. But the most popular theory was that he was the last of the elf-kind, staying in Middlearth which the rest of his kin had sailed to the undying lands.
The Ghost of Lothlorien, as he was oft called, was not just a fantasical hero dreamed up by young children and fostered by bards. None from this age knew him as anything more than a fairy story told to discourage children from woodland jaunts, but at one time he had been known to all as Legolas, the fair son of the elven King Thranduil. His part in the destruction of the Ring of Power was still extolled in tales of the past and had anyone seen the mythic figure, the connection would have been made instantaneously. All other elves had left at the end of the Third Age, sailing across the seas to the Undying Lands, and few of the race of men had such distinctive features.
Legolas was extremely perturbed. All the portents were pointing to a great evil on the horizon, black witchcraft and the doom of Middlearth. What he had just seen in Gladriel's Mirror only hieghtened his uneasiness, and made him wish for the first time in half a millenia that he had broken his oath and gone across the Unchartable Ocean with his kin. The forests of Mirkwood lay fallow, the trees felled and the soil salted. Minas Tirith was going up in flame as a funeral pyre. The great mountians crumbled to ruin, leaving the mines beneath bare, their treasures ripe for the taking. Hoardes of men were locked in the chains of bondage, as a cat-of-nine-tails lashed upon their backs. And a mysterious robed figure was speaking words in the long forgotten tounge of Mordor, sorrounded by arachnids of enormous proportions. Only one line uttered by an ancient soothsayer indicated any chance of survivial and in the way of most prophecies it was not simply cryptic but also paradoxical; You must hope until there is hope. What was the use of hoping until hope came? Wouldn't the action of hoping automatically induce hope? Whatever it meant, it gave Legolas a flicker of hope, though it wavered and was oft close to being extinguished.
The brush crackled, driving Legolas to retreat into the shadows of a ramshakle hall. He had learned long ago that it was easier to exist as a legend than reality, so he crafted an elaborate myth about the mysterious figure in the wood, and, disuised as a bard, told the tale throughout the surrounding villages. The story had grown in size and variations were told across all Middlearth, some startilingly similar to the truth. Creating such of myth had, of course ramifications, most notably the adventurers who searched for the Ghost. Half the elf's time was spent hiding in shadows, keeping the myth just that, a myth. He found it amusing how little men had changed since before his self imposed exile. Races could vanish, evil could be destoyed and man stayed the same down to the leather boot lacings.
The man passed through the screen of trees, boots tramping over auburn leaves and scattered twigs, destroying evidence that the woods were inhabited by anything. His eyes perused the columns of trees with their pathes and buildings. This man was staying longer than the rest, scrutinizing every detail, but still never leaving the ground. If he strayed into the arial laybrinth he would most certainly see signs of life, footprints on the wooden walk, habitable houses, fresh cut planks of wood intermixed with boards smoothed by millenias of use. Eventually the man left, returning home to his family or secret lover, only the broken leaves in his wake belying his foray into the forest.
Waiting several minutes after the man's departure, Legolas reemerged from his hiding spot. The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows that made the golden forest eerie in its silent glory. The shadows spread, cloaking the woods in folds of night's inky blackness. As the flower of Telperion started its nightly journey across the sky, Legolas retired to his bedroll in one of the less delapidated bungaloes, prepared for the barrage of memories that sleep would unleash.
-
The king was dying. Everyone knew but few had the will to admit it to themselves. Healers from all corners of Middlearth had been summond when those in the Houses of Healing failed. Elvish healers who had not yet left for the Grey Havens came. Still no cure was found. It was whispered between the healers in hopes that the public wouldn't know, but they caught wind of the king's state and the whispers became rancous cry. The great king was dying.
The posion was slow acting, gradually aging the king's organs while his body still held it shape and his wits stayed about him. He knew he was dying, knew even before the healers told him. He continued his duties until he couldn't write for the wracking coughs. His stomach betrayed him, unable to keep most food down and making ill use of the food it did. His heart was weakening, he could feel his pulse battering in his chest, straining to circulate the blood one more time. Outside, he was forty-six, active and strong, but his lungs, his arteries, his bowels were aged well past ninety. When he first coughed blood he knew there was nothing more the healers could do, and that by Midwinter he would have passed to the Halls of Mandos.
The king was dead. He had died asleep, in his lover's arms. His body was carried down to the catacombs with all the pomp and circumstance befitting his station. There had been no need to hire mourners, the grief of the king's passing had reduced even the most stolid citizens to a level of pure grief. Never before had death wrought such despair on the city. When the slab of stone closed over the tomb, people rushed forth to adorn the grass in front with flowers of white. It was not long until the grass was hidden. The public departed, returning to their homes and businesses, for even the death of the king would not stop the daily trade. Those who had known the king stayed behind and offered their condolences to the grief stricken lover. It was truely a miracle the lover wasn't carried to the grave as well, only an undying promise kept him from fading into the Halls of Mandos with his grief. He needed to protect the world of men in place of the king who no longer could. His tears fell openly as he left the burial site. The great king was dead.
-
Thin rays of morning sunlight dried the tears on Legolas' sleeping face. Every night he slept and every night he dreamt the same dream and every night he cried the same tears. By the time he awoke signs of the dream grief were gone, but he still knew that sobs wracked his sleep. This morn was no different. Legolas woke, wiped away any tears the sun may not have reached and took the spiral walk down to the terra cotta forest floor. He bathed in the glistening pool, rebraided his wet hair. He returned to his dwelling to retrieve his knives and bow, strapping the bow and quiver to his halberd, and sheathing the knives in his belt. Then he set off, riding the chestnut mare he'd kept in a hidden paddock. Legolas rode a convoluted circut about the surrounding lands, keeping a careful watch for anything that seemed amiss. In prior years he had slain scores of orcs on a single patrol, now he had not seen any orcs for months. This turn of events idicated only one thing - the mustering of a great host of shadow creatures. The patrol passed quickly and uneventfully. Soon it would be time to move southernly, turning his attention upon Gondor and the Rohan, but he would enjoy a few more weeks of relative quiet before facing the land where he had been subjected to so much hurt.
His return to Lothlorien coincided with that of the man. When Legolas was midway up the sinous ramp, the man returned. He had brought a woman this time and she gasped in awe of the great elvish architechture of a past age. She extolled the esquisite beauty of the place for all to hear and the man whispered something in her ear. A high girlish giggle floated on the air, whether from his words or the tickle of his beard on her ear, Legolas didn't know. The pair became wrapped in a kiss and at that moment Legolas choose to sprint the rest of the way back to his home. As Legolas crouched in the shadows, the flirtations continued - sweet nothings, soft kisses, the lover's embrace. He could tell the couple was very much in love, or at least very much in lust. As he turned away from the forest to record the day's patrol the voices changed and Legolas could tell the couple had passed the wooing stage. Dropping his quill he thought back to a time when it was him being loved in that same spot.
-
I didn't marry her.
Good for you.
You know why I did it.
Because Elrond wanted her to go to Valinor with the rest of her kin.
No, because I didn't love her, I loved someone else.
It's nice you're honest with your feelings. Why don't you go woo whoever it is you're so in love with?
I'm trying to, but he won't let me.
-
The memory floated in front of his eyes like was yesterday and he could have sworn he heard the conversation ringing in his ears. Legolas shook his head and went back to inscribing the day in his patrol log to soundtrack of the lovers.
-
When I die, promise me you'll keep the land safe, the poisoned king wheezed. In a fit of pre-mortem clarvoyance the king had forseen he would not live past the sunrise.
His lover looked at him imploringly, You know I may not out live you. Why ask me to do this? Ask someone else, for when you die I shall die as well. He lovingly stroked the king's skin, revelling in how it could feel the way it had two months ago, before the poison began to weave its web of death.
You are the last of the elf-kind on these shores. Anyone else I ask would grow old and die, and with his bones, so would go his oath. Make yourself live, if only to keep from breaking a promise to a dead man. We will meet again, but time will pass before we do. Please, the king broke off into a violent fit of coughs, please protect my people.
I will, the elf answered, tears pooling in his eyes, for he knew this was the king's last wish. He strengthened his will to live, forcing himself to survive first tomorrow, then every day after. He dropped a kiss on the king's forehead, the slightly sallow skin creased in thought.
The elf didn't sleep that night and he felt the king take his final breath. As his lover's soul travelled the road to the Halls of Manos, salty tears etched their way down his skin, pooling on the body that he still held close to him and had once held the spirit of the greatest king known Gondor and to all Middlearth. And the elf survived that day, and the next, protecting the race of men for many years, but on no given day was he happy, for he wanted only to be reunited with his love.
-
Legolas woke abruptly from his slumber. Never before had he dreamt that, for many years the memory of the king's last words and his death had been hidden behind carefully crafted walls, hidden from thought, concious and unconcious. It was with great difficulty that he pushed the dream back into the recesses of his mind where no tendril of thought could reach it. A quick glance at the sky showed it was far from the rising of the Daystar and Legolas slipped easily back into sleep.
-
The king and the elf lay together on their matress of goose down, with sheets of the purest linen covering their naked bodies. Their hands were joined loosely and their legs intertwined. A great sadness struck the king's eyes and he raised a hand to sweep several strands of hair from the elf's face. There is something I need to tell you. Instictively the elf stiffened, knowing no good could come of those words. I'm dying.
I realise you're mortal and you will eventually die. But that doesn't mean you are dying. The Deep seemed to suddenly be erected in the elf's eyes within seconds, cutting off all emotion.
I am truely dying.
But, how? Why?
The arrow in the woods, it was poisoned, it's eating me from the inside out. Everyone in the Houses of Healing are trying to see what can be done, but they don't know what to do. The elf clutched tightly to the king's strong arm.
No! You can't die. No. No. No, no... The elf repeated the matra over and over again to himself, trying to convince himself that it was all a lie. The truth, however, swirled in his brain like whirlpool, sucking all other thought into its depths.
The king hugged the elf tighter to him, drawing comfort from his lover's presence. Please forgive me for causing you this grief. I don't want to die. I don't want you to feel me die. I want to live.
-
When Legolas woke he was spent. He had felt more in those two dreams than he had in the last five hundred years. He ached for one long dead, despite his knowledge that he would not be coming back. The sun had not yet risen, but knowing sleep would not come again that night, he set about his morning routine, consumed by memories and shadowed by despair.
-
To Be Continued...
A/N: After writing those dream sequences I wanted to just crawl into a hole with a full box of tissues, but that could have been the sinus infection talking. What I will say is that this was quite possibly the most emotional I have ever gotten over any angst I have ever written. Please review, I'm currently feeling quite depressed after essentially killing the same character three times.
