LEGOLAS' DESPAIR
A Lord of the Rings FanFiction
NOTE: This is set in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, the battle of Helm's Deep. This scene is not in the books, but I have used the background history laid out by JRR Tolkien.
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The night was black and long. The armoury cramped. Every so often, the sharp ears of Legolas the Elf detected a low rumble of thunder from afar. So soft that it escaped human ears, but loud enough to tell Legolas the weather. Rain was coming. It came with the march of the army of Isengard.
Men and boys reached for swords and spears and mail and shields. There wasn't enough for them all. Some had to do without. Legolas looked into their dimmed eyes and saw hopelessness. His gut clenched. They had lost the war before the war begun and he felt irrationally angry. But could he blame them?
By the table of weapons, Aragorn tested an old notched sword. It was almost rusty; so blunt it was better used as a shield than a sword. Aragorn tossed it among the weapons, shaking his head slightly. "Farmers, farriers, stable boys..." he muttered, "These are no soldiers."
Gimli heard him. Gimli the Dwarf, the Hardy, the Faithful. His helm was temporarily shorn and he rested both hands on his stout axe. "Most have seen too many winters," he observed.
"Or too few," Legolas interjected. And his grip around the bow of the Galadhrim tightened. Oh, what he would give for an army of Mirkwood's finest archers!
Mirkwood. His thought visited his homeland briefly. He remembered the green of the wood, dark though they were at times. But also the yellow flowers and the fragrance of his father's hall. He did not miss the spiders but he missed his kin and the courage of the forest guard. Their valiance and their spirit. The spiders of Mirkwood were no match for the armies of Thranduil, Elvenking.
But here, in Helm's Deep, with none of his kin at present, Legolas felt strangely vulnerable. The fearless warriors of Mirkwood were replaced by civilians of Rohan, with no strength in their arms and not enough courage to face the onslaught of Isengard. Despair rose as he realised that he may meet his death on the stones of Helm's Deep. It sickened him that his death would not be at the strength of the enemy but at the incompetence of men. And he was afraid.
"Look at them," Legolas snapped, "They're frightened. I can see it in their eyes."
The armoury falls into an awkward silence as heads turn to the Elf. He sees death in their eyes-their own death. And it angers him.
"Boe a hyn!" he exclaims, unhinged. "Neled herain... Dan caer menig?" And they should be! Three hundred... Against ten thousand?
Just hearing his own voice admit the overwhelming odds destroys him.
Aragorn turns to him, something like bewilderment in his glance. The Elf had never been one to despair, not according to Aragorn's knowledge. Through the journey of the Fellowship, it is the Elf who proved hardiest and most tireless, as is the way with elves. He alone would laugh and sing while the Fellowship trudged through mud and snow.
Aragorn stalls, tries to understand this despair, "Si, beriathar hyn ammaeg na ned Edoras." They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras.
"Aragorn," Legolas snarls, "nedin dagor hen ú-'erir ortheri." They cannot win this fight. "Natha daged dhaer!" They are going to die!
And when he said "they", he really meant "we".
Aragorn sees through the guise and retaliates, eyes like steel, "Then I shall die as one of them!"
But Legolas reads it. Reads that at the very least, if they were all to perish at Helm's Deep, that he would've fallen aside the heir of Isildur, last of the Numenoreans, greatest among men.
But the people of Rohan do not. The armoury is stunned to silence. They stare with large eyes and Aragorn turns to leave quickly, his emotions barely held in check. Legolas moves to go after him, an apology, a word of comfort, something. But a hand stops him.
"Don't go, lad," Gimli says, the voice of reason. "Let him be."
But when the armoury is lessened, Legolas does leave and Gimli does not stop him. He stalks the parapets of Helm's Deep, looks out into the night and tries to see beyond the gloom and despair. But dread crushes him as he realises that his father may not hear news of him until too late. A dread of the grief that his death would bring. He strokes his bow and tries to remember the Lady of Light; tries to find hope somewhere.
"Penim estel*," he whispers and almost lets out a hollow laugh. We have no hope.
"Pardon me, sir?" someone responds, but Legolas does not hear him.
His ears pick up something else. Something he said. A word. Estel. And suddenly he remembers the singing of bows, the clash of steel, the cries of victory, and he remembers to smile. Estel. Hope. Estel. Aragorn. Hope had been with them from the beginning.
Legolas whirls and leaves the parapets, breaking into a run to reach the armoury where he knows Aragorn must be readying himself for battle. He pauses in the doorway, his feet soundless against the stone. Several feet away, Aragorn pulls on chain and tunic, tightens the belt that holds his dagger, then reaches for his sword. But Anduril is not on the weapons table. It is in the hands of the Elf.
"We have trusted you this far and you have not led us astray," Legolas says, voice soft with a tinge of regret. "Forgive me. I was wrong to despair."
Aragorn understands. Understands more than the words. Understands Legolas' fear, for it is not the nature of elves to die. No. Their hearts are given to the earth and the trees and the stars and death is a strange journey for them to bear.
So he says, "Ú-moe edaved, Legolas." There is nothing to forgive.
And in that moment, they find courage for the long night.
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*Penim estel: We have no hope ; [lit.] lack-we hope
Many thanks to dreamingfifi who actually translated this sentence and gave me other translated options. She has a wonderful website teaching Sindarin for those interested.