Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR.

Rating: PG – 13

Author's Note: Thank you to Avalon Estel, who reviewed In the Dark of the Night! I agree with your thoughts there, and surprise surprise, my sister is the same way as yours! ;)

Thank you also to...um...SPUW Commander, ruler of the eastern hemisphere...ehem...yeah. For reviewing To Live Another Day. Thank you! That was sweet!

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by Kasmi Kassim

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From Twilight to Dawn

Chapter 13: Pale Darkness, Tainted Light

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Daylight was fading.

Among the dark, ancient trees moved a silent figure of old, still with wisdom and vibrant with life. The tall body glided among the bark and leaves as if one with them, as dark and still, and yet it moved without pause, seemingly gliding in and out of the dark, as a silent snake would glide in and out of patches of sunlight and shadows. And thus moved the tall shadow, shrouded in darkness, embraced by the silence breathed by his home. A gentle glimmer of pale gold flickered between the dark tangle of bushes, a deep and ancient gold that breathed with the rustic dust of ages in the forest.

In the darkened light, a blue glint slowly blinked, narrowed. The figure stepped out of the shadows of the trees, and moved onto the forest path. He did not move further. He watched, silent, as the slender youth crouched in the middle of the dusty path, murmuring comfort to an injured orc.

Foolish, idealistic, stubborn elfling.

Not even a rustle of a leaf could be heard as the king approached and came to a stop behind his son. Legolas' lips moved in inaudible whispers of comfort as he pressed his hand against the chest of the panting orc. The orc was somehow...different.

Thranduil's eyes deepened thoughtfully as he watched. Something about the orc was young, feminine. Perhaps it had not finished aging? Or perhaps it was a half-breed? Maybe it had not finished evolving from...what it had been. He shook away the thought, lips thinning into a grim line. It did not matter.

"Do you not grow tired, Father?"

The quiet voice drew his attention toward the young one, who sat still, head bowed. Thranduil stared down at the crown of golden head, silent.

"Do you not grow weary of fighting every day? Holding onto the edge of hope for years, watching our beautiful home wither away? Fighting...for a right to exist?"

His gentle child let out a long, weary breath. The orc under his hand stilled. Legolas stroked the wounded chest soothingly.

"I want to know, Father. I want to find answers, so that we can stop this cycle. I want to...escape from this."

Without a word, Thranduil slowly lowered himself, and crouched by his son's side. He stared down at the orc, who bared his – or was it her? – teeth. He smiled humorlessly at the orc's discrimination. Perhaps it was all for the best. It made it easier to end its life anyway. All of their lives.

"So do I, my son."

Legolas' pale fingers slowly stroked the orc back to calm. The orc continued to eye the king warily, but became quiet again under the prince's touch. The young elf had the soul of a healer.

"I have known the identity of orcs ever since I was a youth." The king made no move to touch the creature. He narrowed his eyes, gaze becoming distant. "I have continued to fight them for centuries, millennia – and I continue to fight them still."

Legolas let out a heated breath. "Why?"

Without answering, the king encircled his knees with one arm, and lowered his other arm onto the ground, drawing idle patterns on the dirt. Long strands of hair streamed down and mixed with the dusty colors of the ground. The tresses swept up the lifeless skin of the earth, becoming coated in grime and weary dust, their inherent golden luster hidden beneath the thick filth. He watched his golden hair dance in the mud with his pale finger, thoughtful eyes narrowed.

"What can we gain by continuing this, Father?" Large eyes stared, frustrated, into the moaning orc.

Thranduil's eyes traced his finger as it continued to draw in the dirt. And soon, his dirtied hair was becoming a part of the dance, a wild and savage snake that writhed in the soil. He watched on in silence.

"Day by day, our forest continues to die. Our people continue to fight, our healers chant and pray over the wounded every day. I received my warrior plaits before I learned how to ride." The young prince sighed wearily, smiling with reluctance when the orc looked up in panic. "Will this ever end?"

The king's hand slowly grasped the dirt, letting the brown earth crumble lifelessly and sift through the long fingers.

"As long as we continue to fight, we can continue to hope." The king's eyes were deep, distant, as they shimmered upon the trickling soil. Slowly streaming, as steady and unending as time. His voice flowed steadily on. "We fight for a right to hope, Legolas. We fight to survive today, so that we may open the day of tomorrow with our hands."

"But-!"

Pleading eyes looked up into his. Thranduil looked down at the orc. The gasps, the ragged breaths. It was dying.

"The orcs were once us, I know." He loosened his hold of his knees and lowered them onto the ground. Cold hands pressed firmly upon the warm earth. "They are no different from us. The only difference is that they were overwhelmed and conquered by the shadows that we all hold in our hearts, the fear and bitterness that may yet take an elf alive. The manifestations of the darkest despair."

Thranduil's lashes lowered. Legolas remained silent. The father looked up, a gentle shimmer in his eyes.

"That is why we must continue to fight them, Legolas."

A dim smile laced his lips as he touched his son's tangled hair with a finger. A smudge of dirt coated the glistening blond strand. Searching his father's face, the glimmering eyes and the age-worn smile, the tenacious and weary smile that masked deeper sorrows within, the son bit his lip.

Seeing his gentle child's eyes shimmering with sadness, Thranduil stood. "The most difficult fight of all is the one against the weariness of one's heart." His voice was low, resolute. "Be not defeated, Legolas."

Legolas watched as his father turned and slowly walked back toward the castle. His father's retreating back. The proud, tall stature. The broad shoulders that had always supported him, the strong arms that had always held him. His father had always loved him with his life, and he had always known it. He just tended to forget a bit too often.

I'm a selfish, stubborn, juvenile fool, he mused humorlessly. I wonder if I will ever grow out of this.

Turning toward the dying orc, he gently stroked the broken skin.

But Ada...I am so tired.

He did not want to be tired any more.

The orc stared back with panicked eyes. Its breaths were coming in shallow gasps. The pulse was quickening in fear. Legolas closed his eyes.

There was once a time when he used to worship the heroes of old. When good battled evil, and always triumphed at the end. When valiant warriors lived on in songs, and met deaths to save others' lives.

But this was no longer a fairy tale. Mirkwood elves lived every day with the ancient valor flowing in their rustic veins, wielding weapons at the forefront of battle, protecting their kingdom. Because the king and the prince were to protect the people, despite the newly growing system of men that was spreading in the more peaceful lands, where leaders ordered others to ride to the front. But even so, even with the valor and the spirit of life that sharpened their blades, their lives were no longer simple; they could not be simple, even if they wished it.

Good and evil were black and white. But now, they were shades of gray.

There was no longer the ultimate evil hand, and the evil minions; no, the cruel minions were his tortured kin, and the tyrant who burned down a village was his kind father. The evil men who wanted his father dead were sad and desperate children who had lost everything dear. And strength was leaving his fingers that held the bow and knife; his aim was unsteady, his vision blurred, and the ground was collapsing under his feet.

His father knew...did he not?

Stroking the groaning orc's chin, Legolas sighed.

His father knew. Being the mightiest warrior in the land was no more a glorious title; lives here were simple, but the world they lived in was not. Being a warrior was no longer valiant and just; it was dirty, bloody, and sometimes – it was not worth the tears. Warrior was no longer an apt title; they were killers, all of them. They killed for a right to survive – and did they really have more right to survive than the orcs did? No, whoever survived was the righteous one. Whoever turned out victorious wrote history. History had always belonged to the victor, the conqueror, the killer.

They were in a war. Was this what a war really was about? Legolas wanted to laugh.

Ada...I am so tired.

Did he not grow weary as well? His father grew weary, yes, but a king could not grow weary. He continued to fight, struggling with the growing grime of dust and blood that tainted his hands, knowing that he was no longer the brilliant beacon of justice and heroism. He continued to protect his people, only because he could, because he was stronger than the orcs. And all around them, the confusion grew, and good and evil were enmeshed, and the world was screaming louder and louder.

Maybe one day, the world would revert back to its simple ways. And then, they would be sure again, and divide good and evil. But with the fading of elves, and the growth of men, men who were weak against temptations of evil, who were both good and evil at the same time, the world did not seem to be coming to that time anytime soon.

Breathing deeply, desperately, he raised his eyes and raked back his hair. And he lowered his gaze once again, his palm remaining pressed against his forehead; hidden beneath the hand, his large eyes were glazed and trembling, staring into a distance, into nothingness, into himself.

I have not the greatest of healing powers yet, he whispered in silence. I am injured and weary.

But...

With a deep exhalation, he pressed his hand down against the orc's chest. Waves of healing magic began to flow from his hands. The orc flinched.

I will share with you my strength, if you share with me your pain.

It was all so confusing. He wanted to escape from it all. But he could not; he would not. He would follow this path, and see where it led – even if it led him to deeper chaos and more terrible confusion and pain. He had to see if there was an end to this, a root to this cycle. Where did evil end, and where did goodness begin? Were there such things anymore? What if it had all been an illusion?

The orc opened its mouth, panting. It began to struggle in pain. Legolas furrowed his brows.

Open for me.

The orc bared its teeth.

And suddenly, with a cold twist in his stomach, Legolas realized a truth that he had been surrounded in all along – the truth that was so prevalent that he had failed to see it.

Just as the elves struggled to survive, so did the orcs; just as the elves were wrathful, so were the orcs; just as the elves were sad, so were the orcs – at least, they would be, if they had not been stripped of that emotion. Any emotion. They were no longer capable of feeling any emotion at all; they were reduced to savage beasts, lusting for food, drink, flesh, and violence. They were as miserable as elves were, and more. There was no longer anything glorious about defeating orcs; there was no honor in slaying tormented souls. Legolas felt dizzy.

It was not a simple thirst for vengeance; it was not a necessity of life, of good versus evil. It was a struggle to survive, yes, but there was nothing justified, nothing righteous, about it.

So this was what it was. What had been wearying him down. He realized that he had already known when he had spoken to Arwen.

This was it, the dirty and complicated web of violence where no one was right and no one was wrong. Where rationality and peace were unanimously put aside for reversion back to the savage ways, and children of Arda plunged themselves into the inferno of hatred and blindness and death. The flimsy coating of civilization put on the most barbaric form of survival, tainted by the tragic gift of intelligence.

So this was what all wars actually looked like.

The orc slowly lay back, panting, closing its eyes in exhaustion. A pale glow began to surround them both, orc and elf. Legolas gritted his teeth.

The war had to end.

Show me your pain. Let the healer see them; the healer can mend you. Show me your pain.

It was a manifestation of all that was incongruous, all that was dissonant and violent and primeval. All that was evil and ugly, a chaos that could not be justified with any glorious reasons.

Was there a way to end this war?

Lost in the world of darkness and screams, Legolas sat back, eyes closed in concentration. The orc moaned.

The woods began to darken in the setting of the sun.

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To Be Continued

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Unsung Heroine: Thank you! I am glad to hear it; that part of the scene, to tell you the truth, was not intended until the last minute...hehe.

Deana: Good to hear from you again! Thank you for waiting!

Brazgirl: Oh yes, the good ol' father-and-son action...mwahahahaha.

elvingirl3737: I am glad to hear you liked it! Thank you!

Sesshyangel: Yes, it is really deviant from the mood of the Strength of One Green Leaf, isn't it? Sigh. But hey, adolescence...there will be more struggles, yes, but love will still fight to hold on too. And I am looking forward to featuring a younger Legolas in the upcoming prequel! I hope you stay around for it! ;)

Coolio02: Wow, I am honored. Thank you, it's really encouraging to hear your words!