Title: When the World Ends

Rating: R for later chapters

Summary: About 500 years after RotK Legolas is the only elf still in Middle-earth, bound by a promise to the dead Aragorn. When mysterious portents begin signaling 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

Warnings: This is *slash.* If you don't like it, don't read. Also there shall be ANGST, and heavy emotional torture.

Spoilers: All LotR with a slightly AU RotK, and some of The Silmarillion

Distribution: Want, take, have. Just ask first so I know where I can find it. This way I can go Wow, look, my story's on a page that isn't mine or FF.net.'

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 chapter is dedicated to Bruin - the greatest horse in the world, who really doesn't deserve to have West Nile. Despite the odds anything can happen, and no matter how dark it seems things can get better.

I'm taking some (read: a lot) of artistic license here. I cannot remember how/if Tolkien described the halls of Mandos, so I'm creating my own idea of it and the magics there concealed. Just so people don't start yelling at me, I'm acknowledging that this was not borrowed from Tolkien, but my own ideas.

Sorry this is late, aside from severe emotional stress of Bruin's health (he'll be fine, to anyone that cares, he just lost all the conditioning he just got back), and taking care of him, I now have two hours of fencing and homework (avoid Algebra II at all costs) and a bizarre need to sleep. Who knows where that came from, I never had to before.

Review Responses:


AntipodeanOpaleye - I'm incredibly picky when it comes to slash too, I've been traumatized by too many really OOC Harry Potter slash fics that I am incredibly wary of slash in general. Thank's about OC's, I try to keep them as cannon/logically correct as possible. I don't think I worded the age thing right in chapter numero uno, Aragorn is the same age as in the books, but I am referring to him in reference to regular human - which will make more sense as I get further into the story. So sorry to let you down. I try to update about once a week, but real-life (and AOL) has been kicking my ass lately, so updates are rather... haphazard. I'm right there with you about updating though, I can't stand when people don't update quickly and yet I have a story which hasn't been updated for almost a year.

Mon2 - All good things take time and chapters and high word counts. Thanks for the stylistic comments, I constantly try to improve that so it's nice to know people appreciate it. And here is a gift from me to you, an update .

Terror - Um... good review? You (somewhat) get your wish.

Katja - Best ever? *falls over in shock*

Lilly Blackstar - Thanks for the complement, and here's the update.

Silvertoekee - Questions are answered in time. All in due time.

Iverin Aduelen - Wow, one of the best you've read... I'm awed. The Galadriel's name was a typo and since spell check doesn't have LotR names built in, I didn't catch it then and obviously not in my very quick continuity read through.

Radiion-hobbitwarrior - Thanks for the assurance that I did not in fact kill it. That is for my mind and mine alone for the moment, and you have the feeling fun will ensue because fun shall ensue.


Chapter III



It is not yet time. I will send you back and you must promise to never make yourself return. Námo sat upon his throne of judgment, huge and powerful and great, cloaked in a mantle of black silk. His voice boomed and ricocheted about the hall, catching in shadowy corners and reflecting off the domed gilt ceiling. He was fantastic, more perfect than was conceivable, his shadow a magnificent train of black tulle. Black marble pillars supported the roof, stretching in long black ropes up to the golden sky. Gray slate floors and walls were a silent testament to the age of the place, their surfaces smoothed by many hands and feet. A stream of pictures showed upon the walls, a continuous spiral towards the ceiling, illustrating the histories of elves and men. Each picture was small, as large as the pad of a man's thumb and yet the walls were half filled with visions of the past. At times the pictures seemed to glow and change, but for the most part they remained still. The walls are not yet filled with your story, your fate not yet fulfilled, you have much more to do until you shall be allowed entrance here. The world shall need you much in the coming days, will you break your promise now, when you are most needed to fulfill it?


Do not worry, for your sorrows shall soon be put to rest, and your heart shall have peace. E'er since Aragorn's death you have mourned - let yourself mourn no longer. Your memories are dark, see them on the walls, a circle of despair. Allow light to once more pierce your heart. Ere you enter these halls again you shall feel joy.


I send you back now, though I know you do not desire to return. A light burst through, blinding any who were party to its brilliance. When the glow diminished the pictures had faded from the walls and the Doomsman of the Valar was left alone in his halls.


-


Legolas woke to find himself sprawled beneath the mallorn trees, the boulder crushed into the small of his back. His goal ran back to him, and with it the refusal of Mandos. Never before had the keeper of the dead prevented entrance to his halls. He had spoken of joy, what joy was there to be found here, amongst the fading trees that had once been filled with the light of many elves. What joy was there here, when he was the last of his kin - a race long delegated to myth and lore. What joy was there here, when all friends had left him through pain of death or through a chance at a better life. And what joy was there here, when his love had passed into the realm where only he was denied entrance.


Legolas stood, grasped the sword in the stone. Blood dripped down the elf's porcelain skin, so tight was his grip. It started as a few drops of red rain, then became a small rivulet, and finally a rushing tidal wave. Down his wrists, down the rusty sword, Legolas neither noticed, nor cared. There was no perverse pleasure in this, simply a despair so deep he never knew of his bodily pain. He released the sword, and brought his hands to his face, the blood still upon them. He cried, the tears and blood mixing, creating pink tracks down his cheeks, the watery blood bitter in his mouth. And still he wept.


-


Inside the body a double helix lay, unfinished and key to what would yet come. All the twisted strands had been skewed for so long, and now they were suddenly being set right. All had been finished but this one strand which had not been complete before, but now would. Every second the strands grew closer to completion, but now they worked with a heightened urgency. If the body woke before this was completed all would be for naught. And awake the body would. For thus the powers had commanded. If this strand was not completed when powers woke the body, more death than any should see would be wrought upon he who deserved no more.


The last piece snapped into place, a gigantic puzzle that had finally been fixed. A spark surged through the strands, setting the body aflame and the mind alight. For the first time in many years did real life flow though the body. Body and spirited had been awoken by the powers and now twas irrevocable.


-


In Fen Hollen he woke, bleary from a sleep that had lasted far too long. He did not remember this place, never had he lain his head down here. The first thing he noticed was the strange sensation in his fingers, the feeling of something crawling through his skin, moving from the end of his fingers to his head, feet, stomach. When the crawling subsided he noticed that for the first time in many years there was not the deep ache of the aged. He looked down at his body, shocked to see it was wrapped in funeral garb that was moth eaten and cobwebbed. What madness was this?


-


With white linen he had bandaged his hands. Legolas constantly itched and readjusted the strips, unable to cease his fidgeting. Since his attempted death unease constantly lingered in his mind. Change floated on the breeze, telling of the strange and unnatural. Whether it was for good or ill Legolas knew not, but neither gave him much comfort. He sought out Galadriel's mirror.


The silver basin had tarnished without the care of its keeper. From the spring Legolas drew water and as it spilt over the finish it darkened, it seemed to become tinted glass, perturbed neither by the wind, nor by water. He exhaled across the water, and the glass seemed to frost then clear. He leaned over the basin, staring into the reflected abyss of dark sky and clouds like the hair of an old man, wispy and silver. The colors of the mirror faded out gradually, until the surface was clear.



The doors to Fen Hollen shimmered into existence. Slowly they opened and a shrouded figure exited, its features indiscernible in the shadowed thresh hold.


The statue of Aragorn that had been erected just after his death shone in its marble glory. Moss had begun to take root in the statue's small fissures, spreading in a fine lace work across its unseeing eyes and wordless mouth. In slow motion it began to crumble until all that was left was a pile of fine gravel.


Hidden in a cranny grew a flower. It was purple, rich as velvet and more potent than the strongest Elvish wine. Nothing grew about the flower and it sprouted directly from the the rock face.


Deep in a mountain a massive black figure, disfigured beyond recognition, sat on its throne of skulls and ribs, surrounded by loyal subjects. The many spiders in the hall were as gargantuan as the figure on the throne - automatically instilling fear in the heart of any man. Deep ran their hatred and strong their will for vengeance. No more would they hide in the shadows, when all Arda could be theirs.


A vast army of men marched up the rocky slope. At their head was Aran, with his still unbloodied sword and rose petal hands. Orcs and dark creatures swarmed from behind the boulders, slowly eating away at the host from Anduindale until only the front line was left. With a surge the orcs leapt upon the duke. When the smoke had cleared and the fell creatures had returned to their haunts the body was in view. A thick ribbon of liquid crimson was wrapped across Aran's neck. Several arrows had lodged themselves into his back. Deep dagger slashes decorated his body. His back had been bent sorely out of alignment, folded over like a rag doll. The life light of Aran's eyes had been long quenched, since he took up the position of general, but now not even the embers remained.



Quickly did Legolas withdraw from the mirror. A mallorn leaf fell into the water, disturbing the image, reverting the water back to its original form.


-


Aragorn stood back from his chambers, seeing the thin wisps of death winding about the door posts, calling him hither, back to the bower of the departed. He took a step closer and in that moment he saw the book hidden in the corner. Truly it was not a book, but a great tome, bound in cow's skin with brittle pages of velum. As he approached the embossed letters became clearer and he could read its title. The Book of Days had the look of something that had seen many births and many deaths. So old was it that Aragorn refused to open it, for fear that the pages would would turn to dust at a breath of wind. He picked up the book though, stared at it for many minutes and then turned and walked out into the light of day for the first time in five hundred years, though he did not know it as such.


The light burned miniature stars into his pupils, until he used the book to shield his vision. He passed through the streets of Minas Tirith catching the many disdainful stares his state of dress attracted. He turned into a shady alley, gateway to what was called Thief's Village. Thief's Village was contained entirely in several interlocking taverns or in a mile long section of unused sewers. As soon as he had passed into the perpetually dank Village he was accosted by prostitutes, male and female. He plowed through them, though the crowd of drunken louts to the staircase which led from the bar to the city's underbelly.


Aragorn passed brothels, mercenaries, and apothecaries who carried anything but medicine. It was only at the end of the row that he turned into Mathilda's: Prophecy, Sorcery, Mystic Consultation and Remedies.


The store was lit by tallow candles of many colors. Various herbs and other magical remedies hung in bunches from the ceiling. In a corner was a table with a pack of tarot cards, arrayed face up. A young woman, dressed for whoring, scurried from the back room. What is your wish, sir? Your future, perhaps, or maybe a magic cure for your ills? Maybe you desire something else, she squeaked.


I need to speak to Mathilda. Aragorn's voice was harsh with unuse and his request came out an angry demand.


The woman played nervously with her grubby locks. But sir, there has been no Mathilda around here for many years.


The owner, Mathilda, whose name is on the sign! I must speak with her.


The woman cast her eyes down and began to pull the loose threads on her shrunken corset. That Mathilda, the founder, has been dead for nigh five hundred years. She died only a few days after the Great King passed away.


-


Legolas urged his horse faster, despite the sheen of sweat already beginning to cover her body. She understood her rider's urgency and lengthened her stride fittingly. As the pair sped through woods and past towns, the world streamed by in a multicolored blur. The city gates were in view now, the first sight of civilization Legolas had seen for many months. The gray ramparts spurred Legolas onward. Noro lim, Mothnár, he pleaded against the mare's neck. Faster still she went, her stride eating the ground in huge gulps, drawing ever nearer to the castle of Anduindale. Sensing her rider's momentary hesitation Mothnár, slowed from a mad gallop to a controlled canter, only to be pushed into the faster gait once more.


The stones of the city street clattered noisily under the mare's hooves. Upon gaining entrance to the city Legolas had slowed to a brisk walk, not wanting to injure Mothnár on the hard surface. Despite the sweat streaking her flanks, she seemed queenly amongst the pack horses and over-heavy chargers. A similar air shone about Legolas, though none could see beyond his black garb. The people allowed the pair though the crowd, watching them in wonder.


A stable boy had offered to put Mothnár away, but Legolas declined, preferring instead to take care of his one friend in the many years. Her welfare addressed, Legolas battered the door, to be greeted by two burly guards, both with deep set scowls. I must speak with Duke Aran, it is of the utmost importance.


The closest guard snorted. And how de we know if that's really the case? Ye could be hired te kill the duke.


I swear on the graves of my mother, father, and lover that I will not harm your lord. Announce my presence to him, for my name is Cüloron and is known to him. He will grant me admittance to this hall, Legolas said. A guard shuffled off, muttering loudly. Minutes passed, plodding by like ancient mules. Pages skittered about the hall, through the arched thresholds and up the tightly winding stairs. Against the wall was a suit of armor that had, judging from its condition, seen much bloodshed. Rust was starting to form on the joints, the fiery orange contrasting sharply with the blue steel.


Aran's approach was swift, his boot heels clicking rhythmically against the flagstones. Lines creased his face, wrinkles that had not been their before appeared. His cheeks were flushed with an anger born of great annoyance. His shirt billowed behind him. No more was the love stricken youth, passionate with fear for his lady. The duke stood before him, trying against the odds to intimidate his guest with his prestigious position. Ah, Cüloron, enter. Thou art most welcome in my hall. Come, we must speak in my study, Aran said, though Legolas mistrusted the mocking manner with which his name was spoken. I must repay you for your generosity and I found some items I thought you would enjoy.


With a wary step, Legolas climbed the stairs behind the duke, wondering just what was being hidden beneath the chivalrous pretense.


TBC...

A/N: Heh. A couple somewhat cliffies. Heh. Again I apologize for the lateness. Also I know very little about DNA and genetics, this is my own interpretation and will carry on through out the later chapters. Cookies to people who catch my references to non-Tolkien myths, legends and stories; some are obvious - some are not. This is going to be a continuos thing of mine.