Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note:

This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)

ActVI

The Shadows

Chapter 55: Hello darkness my old friend

Imladris, September 17th 3018 T.A

As the evening deepened into night, the shadows of Rivendell stretched long and dark, intertwining with the silver light of the moon that streamed through the open windows. Legolas moved silently through the hallways, his steps guided by instinct rather than conscious thought. His mind was clouded with memories and thoughts that seemed to echo louder with each passing moment, like the rhythm of a haunting song he could not shake.

He entered his chamber, closing the door behind him with a soft click, the sound barely disturbing the stillness of the room. The cool breeze of the night carried with it the distant murmur of waterfalls, a serene backdrop that sharply contrasted with the tumult within him. Legolas walked to the window, pausing for a moment as if seeking solace in the view, but found none. His eyes lingered on the vast expanse of the night, yet all he could see was the reflection of his own thoughts staring back at him.

"Hello, my old friend…" he murmured softly, almost as if he were greeting an old companion.

The room seemed to darken, the shadows becoming deeper and more pronounced, as if answering his call. The darkness had never truly left him; it was always there, lurking just beyond the edges of his consciousness, waiting for moments like these to resurface. He could feel it now, encroaching upon him, bringing with it the familiar weight of grief, guilt, and a fit of anger that simmered like embers ready to ignite.

He moved to the bed, sitting at the edge, his gaze fixed on the floor as his mind wandered back to a time long ago. The memories were vivid, painfully so, each one a shard of glass piercing through the calm facade he struggled to maintain. He saw his mother's face, her eyes filled with love and courage, her smile warm and reassuring even in the darkest of times. She had been everything to him—his light, his guide, his strength.

And then, Dol Guldur. The memories surged forward with a sudden, brutal intensity. She had come for him, defying the odds, her bow drawn and her heart fearless. He remembered the clash of steel, the arrows flying, her voice commanding the shadows to part as she fought her way through. But there had been too many of them, and in the chaos, he had watched in horror as they overwhelmed her, dragging her away into the darkness.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had fought, screamed, and struggled, but he had been too weak, too late. They had taken her to Alakar—a name that was a curse upon his lips. The sorcerer had twisted her mind, tormented her with visions, corrupted her spirit until she became something unrecognizable, a shadow of her former self. She had been turned into the Dark Queen, a puppet in Alakar's cruel game, her essence warped beyond recognition.

For years, he had hunted those responsible, his arrows finding the hearts of the orcs who had dared touch her. He had pursued them relentlessly, driven by a need for vengeance that burned brighter than any other desire. He had slaughtered them, one by one, but it had never been enough. Sauron was beyond his reach, an enemy too great, too distant, a force he could not touch. But there was one more—one who had orchestrated her fall, who had guided her into the clutches of madness. Alakar.

Legolas could feel the anger rising within him, a familiar companion to the darkness that wrapped around his soul like a shroud. He knew Alakar had been the one, even if no one had told him directly. Thranduil, his father, had kept that secret from him, shielding him from the full truth, perhaps thinking it would protect him. But the nightmares had told him everything. The visions that plagued his sleep were not mere dreams; they were memories, shadows of the past that haunted him every night.

He had seen it all in his mind's eye—the torments his mother endured, the madness that took hold of her, the pain she felt as her mind was broken and reshaped. And in the end, it had been he who had to release her from that torment, to end her suffering with an arrow loosed from his own bow. His hand shook slightly as he remembered the moment he released the string, the soft thrum of the bow, the way her eyes met his, filled with a sorrow that cut deeper than any blade.

"Darkness, my old friend…" he whispered again, his voice hollow.

He knew he would seek out Alakar. He knew that if he ever discovered where the sorcerer hid, he would go, and he would finish what had been started so long ago. Not for revenge, not even for justice, but to end the shadow that had cast such a long pall over his life, over Mirkwood, over everything he had held dear.

But tonight, he was not ready. He was not yet prepared to follow that path, to embrace the darkness fully. He needed to find his strength again, to prepare for the journey he knew he would one day have to take.

Legolas closed his eyes, his mind still wrestling with the ghosts of his past. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, feeling the tension ease slightly from his shoulders. He knew the darkness would always be there, lingering, waiting, but he would not let it consume him. Not yet.

For now, he would face it, as he always had. He would confront the nightmares, one by one, until he found the peace he sought. And if peace did not come, he would make his way through the shadows, step by step, until the day he could finally face Alakar and end the story that had begun so many years ago.

He lay back on the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the shadows shifting and moving in the corners of the room. He whispered once more, "My old friend… you have come to talk with me again."

And with that, he let the darkness take him, pulling him into a restless sleep filled with visions of the past and the promise of what was yet to come.

The night had deepened, casting its shadows through Rivendell with a silence that only the ancient halls of Elves could know. The moon's silver light seeped through the high windows of Legolas's chamber, but it offered no comfort to the one who lay restless in his bed. Legolas, who had fought countless battles with unwavering courage, faced an enemy now that could not be vanquished by the blade or arrow. The enemy waited in the depths of his mind, cloaked in shadow, ready to strike the moment he closed his eyes.

And tonight, as every night, he fell into its grasp.

At first, it was just a murmur, a distant echo that rippled through his consciousness. Then, the shadows began to deepen, thickening into a dark mist that pulled him under. The room around him dissolved, the walls fading like smoke in the wind, and he found himself standing in a darkened wood. The trees loomed over him, gnarled and twisted, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the mist swirled around his feet, cold and damp, clinging to his skin like the chill of death.

The whispers began, low and insistent, like the rustling of dead leaves in the wind. They grew louder, more frantic, until they filled his mind with a cacophony of voices, all speaking at once, unintelligible and maddening. He knew these voices; they were the voices of the orcs who had taken his mother, the guttural growls of Sauron's minions, but they were also the voice of something else—something deeper, darker.

"Traitor… murderer… son of despair…" they hissed.

Legolas felt his heart begin to race, his breath quickening. He tried to turn away, to escape, but the mist grew thicker, wrapping around his legs like chains, holding him in place. He could feel the cold seep into his bones, a cold that reached his very soul, and with it came the familiar sensation of dread.

And then he saw her.

His mother stood before him, her figure shrouded in darkness, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes hollow and filled with sorrow. Her once radiant hair was matted and tangled, her beautiful robes torn and stained with blood. She was looking at him, and yet through him, her expression a mask of anguish and confusion.

"Legolas," she whispered, her voice breaking like brittle glass. "Why didn't you save me?"

He tried to speak, to tell her that he had tried, that he had fought with everything he had, but the words caught in his throat, choked by the guilt that tightened like a noose around his neck. He could only stare at her, helpless, as the mist began to swirl around her, enveloping her in a dark embrace.

The scene shifted, as it always did, violently. He was no longer in the forest, but in a dark, cold chamber. The walls were slick with moisture, the air heavy with the stench of blood and fear. His mother was there, strapped to a stone slab, her arms bound, her body broken. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her eyes wild with terror.

Alakar stood over her, his face a mask of cruel delight. His hands moved with a sinister grace, weaving dark tendrils of magic that curled around her like serpents, biting into her skin. She screamed, a sound that tore through the air, through Legolas's very soul, a sound that would haunt him for as long as he lived.

He tried to move, to rush forward and stop it, but he found himself rooted to the spot, his legs heavy as stone. He could only watch, powerless, as Alakar twisted his hands, and his mother's screams grew louder, more desperate.

"You are nothing," Alakar whispered, his voice echoing like a serpent's hiss. "Nothing but a pawn, a tool for my will. You will break, as they all do."

Legolas's heart pounded in his chest, his hands shaking as he fought against the invisible bonds that held him. "No!" he tried to shout, but his voice was swallowed by the darkness. "No, stop this!"

Alakar turned, his eyes gleaming with malice, and for a moment, Legolas could swear that the sorcerer was looking directly at him, seeing him, knowing him. "You cannot change the past, son of Thranduil," he sneered. "This is your fate. This is your doing."

Legolas felt his breath catch, his vision blurring with tears. He could feel the weight of the truth pressing down on him, the reality that he had not been able to save her, that he had been too weak, too late. His mother's eyes found his, and there was a plea in them, a silent cry for mercy, for release.

And then he was there, in the clearing, standing on the soft grass with his bow drawn, his hands steady, his breath caught in his throat. His mother stood before him, twisted and monstrous, her face a mask of hatred and pain. Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, he saw the flicker of recognition, of the mother he had loved.

"Legolas…" she whispered, her voice broken, pleading. "End it… end my suffering…"

His hand trembled, his vision blurred, but he knew he had to do it. He had to release her from this torment, from this twisted fate that had claimed her. His fingers tightened on the bowstring, the arrow ready to fly, and for a moment, he hesitated.

But then he released it.

The arrow flew true, piercing her heart, and he watched as her body fell, crumpling to the ground, her eyes wide and empty, the light gone from them forever. A sob tore from his throat, his knees buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the ground, his body wracked with grief and despair.

"No… no…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

But there was no answer, only the darkness, only the sound of his own ragged breaths and the distant, mocking laughter of Alakar, echoing in the shadows.

He jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding against his ribcage as if it were trying to escape. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, and he could feel the tears on his cheeks, hot and wet. The room was still dark, the shadows deep and unyielding, and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was.

He felt the ache in his chest, the familiar pain that had become a constant companion. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his body trembling as he tried to steady himself. He knew the darkness would always be there, waiting for him, lurking just beyond the edges of his mind. But tonight, it felt heavier, more suffocating, like a weight he could no longer bear.

Legolas drew a shaky breath, his hands still trembling. "Why?" he whispered into the darkness, his voice raw with pain. "Why must I live this again and again?"

But there was no answer, only the silence of the night, the quiet sound of his own heartbeat, and the lingering, unrelenting shadows of his past.

As Legolas slowly began to emerge from the clutches of his nightmare, the lingering shadows of his mother's face, Alakar's laughter, and the unending darkness started to dissolve, like mist in the morning light. His breath still came in heavy gasps, his chest tight with the remnants of his fear and guilt. His question—"Why?"—still echoed in the silence of his chamber, but deep down, he already knew the answer.

He endured the weight of his pain because it was he who had taken her life. The guilt clawed at him relentlessly, a shadow that never lifted. Slowly, almost hesitantly, his hand moved to his pocket, his fingers seeking the small brooch, Lasgalen—the Little Leaf. When his fingertips brushed its familiar shape, a faint flicker of relief crossed his face.

The brooch, lovingly crafted by his mother when he was no older than seven, remained safely with him. It was more than an heirloom; it was a fragment of her love, imbued with the warmth of her hands and the care of her heart. She had called him her Little Leaf, and this token was a constant reminder of the bond they had shared—a bond that even death could not sever.

As he felt its smooth edges, the ache in his chest softened, if only slightly. He took a steadying breath, drawing strength from its presence. Then, squaring his shoulders, he continued onward, his burden unchanged but his resolve firm.

Legolas sat up slowly, feeling the cool air of the room brush against his damp skin. His hair clung to his face, soaked with sweat, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. He shifted, pulling himself to the headboard of his bed, and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment to steady his racing heart. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, a posture that felt small and defensive—a rare vulnerability for the elven prince who had faced so many battles, so many enemies. But this enemy was different, more intimate. This enemy lived inside him.

Inside the absolute darkness of his room, he felt strangely comforted. The darkness was familiar. It was the only thing that truly understood him, the only companion that had remained constant through all the centuries, through all the loss. It was his old friend, the one he could not escape, the one he did not truly want to escape. For this darkness was the only place where he felt he could truly be honest, where he didn't have to hide the depth of his pain or the extent of his guilt.

He felt the weight of it pressing down on him, a crushing force that settled over his shoulders and sank deep into his bones. He knew that he would carry this burden for as long as he lived, and maybe beyond. He accepted it. He embraced it.

"This is my penance," he whispered into the darkness, his voice barely more than a breath. "My punishment for what I have done. And I will endure it, for as long as it takes, for as long as it is given to me."

His words faded into the quiet of the room, and he felt the coldness settle deeper into his skin, chilling him to the core. He rested his head back against the wooden frame of his bed, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows seemed to move and dance, shapes forming and dissolving like memories. He knew they were not real, that they were just tricks of his weary mind, but in them, he saw her face again, the way it had been before—kind, gentle, with eyes that had once looked upon him with love.

But that love had turned to something else. In the end, it had become a gaze of torment, of a soul trapped in its own body, twisted by the darkness, by Alakar's cruel hand. And Legolas had been forced to release her from that torment. He had been forced to do the one thing he had never imagined: to kill his own mother.

"I deserve this," he whispered again, his voice stronger this time, as if trying to convince himself of the truth of the words. "I deserve every moment of it."

He closed his eyes, feeling the sting of fresh tears forming. He was tired—so tired—of carrying this weight, of living through this nightmare, of waking up every morning feeling as if a piece of himself had been lost in the darkness, never to return. But he also knew he could not let go. He could not forget. Because forgetting would mean betraying her memory, betraying the pain she had endured, and that was something he could never allow himself to do.

Legolas drew in a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the turmoil within. He only prayed that he would be strong enough to keep enduring it, to live through every night, to face every punishment that came his way. Because he believed, with every part of his being, that he deserved it. That this was his price to pay, and he would pay it willingly, for as long as the darkness would have him.

The shadows seemed to draw closer, the air around him growing colder. And in that stillness, in that quiet, he made a silent vow to himself. To live through it all, to endure every wound, every scar, every tear. To face the darkness head-on, without fear, without hesitation.

Because for him, this darkness was more than a curse; it was the only thing he had left that made him feel alive.

((Upcoming Chapter Fifty-Six))

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