Disclaimer: All rights for Lord of the Rings go to its proper owner(s).
As Legolas falls to his knees, he can't help but think that the novice masters never prepared them for this.
The Orc in front of him is taken aback by his sudden downward movement, and can't reverse its stroke in time to avoid slicing into the Orc that had snuck up behind him and delivered a swift, devastating kick between his legs. The second Orc slides to the ground, gleeful expression turning rapidly into one distinctly surprised, finally settling on angry before it goes limp.
Meanwhile, Legolas, barely resisting the urge to curl into a little ball on the leafy ground and grab himself in an instinctual act to stop the pain, raises his hand holding a knife and prepares his next strike, deciding darkly that some retribution in the form of castration is in order, when an arrow goes whizzing over his head, embedding itself into the Orc's throat. The foul creature tumbles to the ground, and Legolas falls onto his side, realizing that curling up is no longer a voluntary decision: it is going to happen whether he likes it or not, so he might as well comply.
He is dimly aware that the sounds of battle are dying out around him, so absorbed is he in the agony that comes with a certain abused body part. Waves of nausea wash through him, and he clenches his jaw in an effort to stave off the retching that his roiling stomach warns is coming.
The light crunch of feet near him warn of the approach of a fellow Elf. The Elf pauses for a moment, then says, with an unmistakably amused voice, "So…care to share with the rest of the class?"
"Shove off," Legolas mumbles, not yet having recovered the ability to raise his voice, and rolls over onto his back, knees bent and hands clenching his thighs so tightly that he is sure to have bruises tomorrow. Naedir snickers.
"Why don't you just lie there and get comfortable? We will handle the piling and burning."
Legolas groans, knowing from his friend's tone that taunts and jabs will be coming for him in the near future. Naedir laughs again and moves away to help the rest of the patrol with dragging the Orcish bodies into a pile and setting them on fire. By the time a merry blaze has been lit, crackling and popping as the flames eat away at the fabrics, Legolas has recovered enough to sit up against a tree, although he is still unable to straighten out fully. Another of the patrol comes up to him, a smirk spread across her face.
"Are you all right, Captain?" she asks innocently, ignoring the sullen glare that he throws at her. He has known this particular Elf for far too long to think that the question, as sweetly said as it is, is anything but mocking.
"Fine," he responds, and her grin widens.
"Then you'll be happy to know that we are all ready to move out. Naedir is anxious to get home; he says his mother promised to bake him a pie when he returns."
Legolas heaves another sigh at this but delicately pushes himself to his feet and limps over to his horse, the female warrior following behind. He doesn't miss the amused grins that the other females of the patrol are throwing his way; the males look more sympathetic, but even their more detailed knowledge of his discomfort isn't enough to stop them from chuckling quietly. He faces his horse, for one of the few times in his life dreading having to get onto it. But, Naedir's mother's pies are delicious, and he is determined to bribe a slice from her before his friend scarfs it all down. With a reluctant groan, he pulls himself into the saddles and winces. It is just as uncomfortable as he feared it would be.
"Let's get going," he growls to the patrol, who exchange cheerful looks and gracefully swing up into their saddles. One Elf stretches dramatically, touching the tips of his boots. "Yeah, yeah," Legolas grumbles.
The ride home is just as torturous as he had dreaded. His horse seemed to be hitting every single divot and bump in the path, jostling and bouncing its aching passenger around in the suddenly-hard saddle. Legolas bites his lip throughout the ride and pictures taking a nice, long, hot bath when he gets home. Then one of the other Elves starts singing an up-beat song gleefully detailing the battle, and he groans loudly, to the further amusement of the group.
The gates of his father's halls is one of the most welcoming sights that he could ever have imagined. The gate guards call out a greeting to him, to which he simply raises a hand, quickly lowering it again to the saddle to brace himself as his horse bounces suddenly. He glares at it. The glint in its eye tells him all he needs to know about that sudden movement.
When the patrol clatters into the courtyard, he slides stiffly off his horse and lets out a great sigh of relief, ignoring the alarmed look the stable hand throws him. He starts off slowly in the direction of the mountain stronghold, well aware that his patrol is following him. The long ride in the saddle has made him sorer than he thought, and as a result he is reduced to an odd shuffling walk. The Elves wandering about the palace greet him with smiles that slip into concerned looks as they observe his awkward gait, but he returns the greetings with a forced smile of his own and continue on.
Inside the council room where he is to give his report to his father, the council itself is seated around a long table, barely pausing in their argument to give him a cursory look. Not that he minds; as long as his father hears his report and lets him go soon, he can go get that hot bath.
And oh, how good it sounds!
King Thranduil is sitting at one end of the long table in a high-backed chair, one elbow resting on the table and his chin propped up on his hand. He is blandly watching two councilors argue with each other when the patrol walks in, but at his approach slides his gaze over. His kingly mask doesn't slip, but Legolas knows him well enough to know that he is glad to see him.
Legolas intends to slip down into a brief kneel, as is customary, but as soon as he starts the motion his body screams at him please, please no! so he aborts the movement and instead places his hand over his heart and inclines his head. "Father," he says as respectfully as he can when certain parts of his body are still throbbing painfully.
"Legolas," Thranduil returns, and at his voice the councilors fall quiet. "Is all well?"
He isn't certain whether the question refers to the state of the forest or himself, but considering the nature of his injurie, he is reluctant to take the latter option. So he gives his report, that the Orcs and spiders are still encroaching on the clean forest, and falls quiet, hoping to be dismissed.
"And what is wrong with you?"
Legolas doesn't miss the muffled burst of snickering from the patrol behind him, and neither does his father, judging by the King's briefly startled look. It quickly vanishes behind his mask before anyone less familiar with the King can notice.
"I will be fine," he replies stiffly, but Thranduil is evidently not in the mood to leave it at that.
"Will be?" he asks, raising one eyebrow. Legolas hesitates, trying to hurriedly figure out a not-quite-lie that does not contain the truth when Naedir decides to chime in.
"An Orc kicked him in the crotch," he says cheerfully. Legolas closes his eyes and imagines ways to painfully kill his friend. The laughs from the other Elves in the room only deepen his embarrassment, and he can feel his cheeks flushing.
To his surprise, his father also starts chuckling. "Well, that does explain it. Thank you, Naedir."
"Yes, thank you," Legolas growls, throwing Naedir a murderous look. The dark-haired Elf simply grins back.
"Still, do try not to do that again," Thranduil continues, and Legolas faces him with an exasperated look. It wasn't his fault the Orc kicked him there! "I do want grandchildren, you know."
At this the other Elves are unable to contain their laughter, and soon Legolas has to limp from the room, face burning and pride in tatters.
At least the bath is worth the wait. And the pie doesn't even require any bribing.
Well, I hope you enjoyed this! I don't normally write in present tense, so this was somewhat of an experiment for me. Still, it was fun to write.