Suddenly Legolas found himself suspended in the air, there was nothing around him, only empty space. The Elf found that he couldn't move or feel anything, his heart began to pound in his chest. It was a strange feeling, but it was oddly comfortable. Before he could stop his own mind from thinking, Legolas knew that it wouldn't be that aweful, actually quite nice, spending the rest of eternity here.
'No!' he thought stubbornly to himself, 'No, I cannot leave my family and friends.' but the more he tried to persuade himself, the more he began to realize that he didn't want to leave and return to Middle Earth.
Then he heard a voice behind him, it was melodic and femine. He had heard it somewhere before. She walked around the surprised Elf and faced him, it was his mother.
"Naneth?" he asked, confused. His mother had died when he was only a young elfling, hadn't she?
She smiled softly and nodded, before reaching out and caressing her son's cheek. "Ion nin."
Legolas tried to pull away but was strictly reminded that he couldn't move. "Where am I?"
"In the halls of Mandos."
"How? What . . . I . . I can't be here, I can't be dead. I'm only unconsious." he said, more as a reassurance to himself than to argue his point.
His mother only shook her head. "Not even Elves can survive a month with orcs, you should be fortunate that you lasted that long." she could see emotions raging behind his crystal eyes.
"No." he said stubbornly, "I can't just let this happen, I won't let it!" the Prince was embarrassed how much he sounded like an elfling, arguing the inevitable.
The figure of his mother began to fade, even as he called out to her.
Thranduil was in denial, his only son was dead. It just wasn't right, it shouldn't happen. The King looked up as he saw someone approaching out of the corner of his eye, when he looked up the grieved Elf saw a whole precession of his finest warriors and some from other lands marching towards him. At the head there was Caranar and Haldir of Lorien, each carrying a white banner. Behind them, there were three horses pulling a wagon. Its wheels of doom spinning slowly as if the wheels of time itself. Thranduil feared what was in the wagon, but he knew there was no other way. Holding his posture the best he could manage, the King slowly approached once the wagon had stopped, once time had stopped. Preparing himself, Thranduil looked over the side, afraid of what he woud see . . . .
Legolas felt himself begin to shiver, the atmosphere had become suddenly frigid. Then, as if out of his own imagination, a tall figure materialized before his very eyes. It had to be Mandos himself. A voice echoed over the Elf's head, speaking in some strange tongue that Legolas could not understand, yet somehow knew. Before he could bring himself together Mandos had disappeared, and Legolas felt himself suddenly plummeting downward. Downward.
Thranduil peered over the edge of the wagon and saw his son, except his face was pale in death and his fair skin was marred by cuts and bruises. His lips were blue, and his eyes stared straight but saw nothing. Yet, in death, Legolas had a strange beauty that he did not have in life. A peace that Thranduil had never seen, but he was dead. The King could only stand grief stricken, small rivulets of tears coursed down the King's face. Had he done something wrong by not letting Legolas out of his sight when the Elf was young? Was his being over-protective the reason behind his son's death?
