Leading into Battle- Chapter 2

A/N: For all of those I messaged saying this was the really angsty chapter, it actually isn't. That will be the next chapter. I only realised this when I was splitting up the second chapter, just before publishing it. This one just continues the suspense a little longer *evil grin*, but is slightly shorter than usual, so the next chapter will have a rather tense cliffie. *runs away from angry readers*

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1

Thranduil moved swiftly down the valley, leaving behind the corpses of the orcs, and those who had fallen in the battle. Already the sky was darkening, but torches burnt brightly across the valley as the search for wounded continued.

He paused at the edge of the camp, waiting impatiently for Bard and Gandalf to catch up. He watched the flickering torchlights, fervently praying to all of the Valar for them to find his son. Already the word had spread amongst his people, and he knew Legolas was not in the camp, or lying with the injured. Thranduil gulped. He was still on the battlefield, and he prayed so much that he was simply helping to find wounded, and was not…was not…

He shook his head. He could not think it.

The wizard and man finally caught up, and the three strode into the camp, heading for the tents surrounded by the flickering light of many torches. Here was where the wounded had been taken. Men, elves and dwarves lay on row upon row of pallets. Elves, the most skilled in healing, moved quietly from pallet to pallet, bandages in hand. The wholesome smell of athelas filled the air and the three weary soldiers felt themselves lose the stoop in their shoulders.

Both Bard and Thranduil rejected any offer of treatment from the healers; instead forcing Gandalf to sit down as a healer bandaged his arm. Thranduil smiled slightly at the sight of the ancient and powerful wizard being fussed over, and said ancient and powerful wizard stopped his moaning for a second to glare at the Elven King.

Thranduil returned the glare with his special ice-cold gaze, one that could instantly stop anyone in their tracks. Indeed, Galion, Thranduil's butler, was prepared to swear that he had seen three Mordor orcs instantly stop at that gaze at Dagorlad, just before they had all met with fairly brief, painful deaths at the hands of the King.

Gandalf simply glared even more. "I know how your son feels sometimes" he muttered. At the mention of Legolas, Bard watched as Thranduil's mask slipped for a second. The normal, stern composure vanished and the bowman witnessed the silent struggle of the father inside. The Elven King's face was drawn and pale, even for an elf. But it was only for a minute, before the mask slipped back down and the calm composure of a King came back.

Gandalf stood up; his bandaged arm enclosed in a white sling, and sighed deeply. Thranduil moved away slightly, not letting the wizard see his face, for he would surely see beneath. He knelt down beside the bed of an elf nearby. The elf opened his eyes at the quiet sound, turning his head slightly to see his King kneeling in front of him.

Thranduil gently shushed the wounded elf as he tried to speak. He laid one hand across the elf's forehead and the elf sighed, closing his eyes as sleep took him.

Gandalf sighed, moving off down the rows of pallets towards a solitary tent. "I go to see Thorin" he said quietly.

Bard nodded, watching Gandalf enter the tent. His gaze flickered back to Thranduil, who was moving from elf to elf. Any of his warriors that lay there wounded, he visited, offering a measure of comfort from simple words, or simply from his presence. Not a few elves died desperately grasping the King's hand.

Eventually, when Gandalf did not return, the Elven King and Bard entered Thorin's tent. They sat with the fallen dwarf throughout the night, mending old wounds between them and comforting each other in the darkness of the tent. Many times, men or elves cautiously entered, the men informing Gandalf of the fruitless search for Bilbo, and the elves warily telling their King that his son had not yet been found. Each and every time, Thranduil struggled with the urge to run out onto the battlefield and scream his son's name. Hope that Legolas was whole and uninjured was gone, now he just prayed that he was still alive.

It was past dawn when, as Gandalf was indeed beginning to worry about Bilbo, a shout came from outside. A young man, one of the last sent out to search for the hobbit, came in with the Halfling. Gandalf took him into the tent, and Thranduil and Bard respectfully went their own ways. Thranduil strode to the edge of the camp. Few men now scouted the battlefield; most of the uninjured had set out of scouting parties to vanquish the remaining goblins.

Thranduil sighed deeply as he watched the battlefield anxiously. He did not like to admit it, but he was so afraid. Afraid of seeing his son's body being brought back, lifeless, afraid of never hearing his voice again, or seeing him laugh. Afraid that the thing he loved most in all of the world would be taken from him, snatched away so like his father before. He sighed bitterly. So many elves had died trying to protect their home, and not a few had died trying to protect him. He could not let his son join those ranks, could not let him leave. But he had no say in the matter.

Never before had Thranduil felt so powerless as he walked through the camp, his sword by his side. What use was a sword, or a bow, or knives, when he could not use them to do what he most wanted to do, to find what he most wanted to find? He hated feeling powerless, dependent on an ever dwindling hope that his son was alive. Ai Valar, he hated it.

He hated sending Legolas into battle. He hated the fact that his son was so headstrong that he would lead the charge into the valley. Had Legolas listened to him, he might well be safe.

Or he might not have. Thranduil shook his head. Legolas could have died fighting in the valley, but he also could have died on Ravenhill just as easily. So many elves had died there. Too many, maybe. Maybe too many to justify fighting. And yet Thranduil knew he could not think these thoughts. He could not, for how would anyone keep going if he fell into despair?

But if Legolas was...

Then there would be no recovery, maybe. No way back out of the pit he had already begun to dig for himself. No return, not if Legolas was...

Thranduil shook his head angrily. He would not think it. Not now, not when there was still the smallest sliver of hope. He couldn't.

0-o-0-o-0

A weary elf moved across the battlefield, his sharp gaze scanning the ground for any sign of golden hair. In his exhausted state, he stumbled, and would have fallen if it were not for the man at his side, catching his arm.

The dark-haired elf smiled softly at the man. "You have my thanks" he murmured, straightening up. He paused suddenly, seeing a flash of gold, but it was simply a sword reflecting the bright sunlight.

The man sighed. Even if he didn't want to admit it to the elf, he was bone-numbingly tired, and desperately wanted to go back to the camp. "We won't find him alive" he said eventually. "Why shouldn't we just go back?"

The elf spun, staggering slightly in his weariness. "You know nothing of what you speak of!" he hissed. "He will be found. He must be found."

The man held his hands up in defence. "Alright, alright" he muttered. "We will keep searching. But, if you don't mind me asking, why?"

The elf looked up from his search, surprised. "Because he is our Prince" he said simply. "He led us into the battle. He risked his life for us. I think giving up a night in a bed is the least I can do for him."

The man frowned. "But why is he so important? Why have we been searching for over a day for this elf?"

The elf shrugged. "He is our Prince" he said softly, moving through the corpses of Orcs in the midst of the valley. "He would give his life for any of us. And we swore an oath of allegiance, an oath to protect the Woodland Realm at any cost. The King and the Prince are the Woodland Realm. Without them, we would have perished a long time ago. They give us hope." The elf sighed, his dark hair falling over his face. He flicked it back. "We have been out here for a while. Head back to the camp- report to someone. I will stay out here. I will not leave this field before he is found."

The man nodded, and began to head towards the tents. The dark-haired elf watched him go, his keen eyes following him as he entered the camp. Then, with a weary sigh, he resumed the search.

The sun had journey across the sky when the elf reached the heart of the valley, where Thorin had fallen, and Beorn had borne the fallen King under the Mountain from the battle. The dark-haired elf sighed deeply. He attempted to move across an orc's corpse, but in his exhausted state tripped and fell to the rocky ground.

He winced, pushing himself up on grazed hands. Suddenly he froze. There. He could see something. A flash of gold from underneath a mound of the huge orcs, the bodyguards of Bolg. He pulled himself closer, scrambling on his knees over rocks and carcasses. The elf held his breath as he reached the corpses and began to heave the carcasses away, one by one. When he got to the last one, he pushed and it rolled over with a slump. A white knife was buried in its neck.

The dark-haired elf pulled the knife out, sticking it in his belt, but that was not important. His breath caught as he knelt over the figure on the floor. Golden hair fanned out around a bruised and bloody face, and bright red blood covered his shoulder, mingling with the black blood of the orc. The elf reached out with trembling fingers, pressing them underneath his jaw. He murmured softly in surprise.

"He's alive."

0-o-0-o-0

Thorin Oakenshield died soon after the Halfling had been found.

Bard sat down wearily in his tent, his armour cast upon the floor. He would pick it up later; maybe clean it if he had the time. Already he was busy, trying to sort out the aftermath of the battle, as well as the huge problem of the gold.

He sighed, absentmindedly rubbing his forehead. Apparently all the men now saw him in charge. It was up to him to sort out Lake Town, up to him to rebuild Dale. At least Thranduil did not seek to disturb him.

The bowman frowned. Actually, he hadn't seen the Elven King since the morning, when they said a final farewell to Thorin. Thranduil had promptly left as soon as was respectful. He hadn't seen him since.

Bard sighed and stood up. Already his tent was too enclosing, too stuffy. Until a week or so ago, that fateful night when the dragon came, he had been nobody. Now he was a hero, a warrior. He was the heir of Girion, Lord of Dale. He had his own tent. It was quite a lot to take in.

Pushing back the flaps of his tent, he strode out into the camp. The mid-afternoon sun blazed high in the sky as Bard walked to the edge, nearing the battlefield. He needed some air.

The bowman paused as he caught sight of another figure at the edge of the camp. Thranduil stood, looking out across the battlefield. As he watched, the Elven King started to pace, his gaze never leaving the valley. Few now searched the valley for survivors. Indeed, Bard could hardly make out the figures of the last few elves, men and dwarves that moved around the field. It was not likely that there would be any more found alive.

Thranduil turned as he heard Bard approach. He smiled wryly. "If you seek peace and quiet, I am afraid I would not be the best company."

Bard smiled back. "Nay, I simply seek some air" he said quietly. "Everything is quite…overwhelming."

Thranduil nodded, but did not speak. Bard turned and followed his gaze out across the battlefield. "I am sure your son will return, my Lord" he said quietly. "Have hope."

Thranduil sighed. Hope, he thought bitterly. Hope deserted us when the shadow returned, when my kingdom fell. There is little hope for us now.

The Elven King, realising Bard was still standing next to him, turned and started to walk into the camp slightly. Bard tried to change the topic swiftly. "Dale can be retaken now" he said. "But it will be a difficult challenge."

Thranduil sighed softly as he turned away from the battlefield. "Aye, it will be tough" he said. "But I would have you know that I and my Kingdom will be here should you need help." Thranduil stopped, turning to Bard. "I and my people are here for you, should you need assistance. We will not forget what you have done for this world."

Bard looked slightly startled, but remembered his manners quickly. "My deepest thanks, Sire" he said, bowing to the Elven King. "I have a feeling that a lot of help shall be needed."

Thranduil smiled wryly, and the pair began walking again. Suddenly, the Elven King stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing. Bard looked at him questioningly as he spun around. Thranduil froze, and Bard followed his gaze to see two figures stumbling towards the camp.

To Be Continued

Mwahaha! That was also a bit of a cliffie. Woops! Next chapter will be published tomorrow, and I will try to publish one every day after that. It's looking like there will be six chapters overall.

I just want to say thank you to everyone who has reviewed, though I have sent you all messages. However, Issy, I can't send you a message because you don't have an account (I think?) so I want to say here thank you very much for your kind reviews.

Til the next time!