(A/N) So here's part two, as promised. I sincerely appreciate everyone who has reviewed, fav'd, and followed. Seriously, you guys make my day. The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies trailer is released, and I'm ecstatic. Can't wait for the movie! Anyways, please drop me a review and tell me whatcha think :)
Disclaimer: I don't own J. R. R. Tolkien's wonderful world, nor do I Peter Jackson's lovely movie renditions. (If I did, the last Hobbit movie would still be called 'There and Back Again')
CHAPTER TWO
Legolas let the whispers of the trees wash over him, pleased with the tidings from the West. A slight breeze lazily brought the contented murmurs of the woods towards them as they walked, soothing his nerves considerably. Mirkwood was painted in hues of gold and brown, lively even in late autumn. The space was refreshing, and the prince felt relieved of the oppressiveness that weighed on him in the underground halls.
The elves he traveled with were amicable, quiet with the focus peculiar to their race. Meticulously organized in ranks, the blonde led five rows of three silently through the trees. They shadowed the familiar patrol trail, flying through branches with the grace of natives, reaching out with their senses and questioning the trees for signs of enemies.
Halfway through the designated route, Legolas slowed his pace. The sun should be setting somewhere above soon, but the dusky grey light in the forest would remain for a while yet. The trees had begun to mumble in confusion, still a slow, drawling noise. When expanding his senses further, Legolas caught it.
A faint life force was rushing towards them—and if it had not been going so quickly, the party of elves could have likely missed it.
"Wait." Legolas held up a hand to the others, bow drawn and arrow notched with lightning speed.
The light shuffling of feet ceased as each elf anchored themselves to the trees, boots nimbly finding notches and cracks in bark to take hold of.
Legolas' eyes followed the quiet, dark shape that approached. As he neared, the shape revealed itself to be a man, well-armed and at home among the forest.
A man that moves like an elf. Legolas noted soundlessly, surprised when the human's hands were raised in surrender. Not many would have the skill to sense the hidden warriors' presences, yet blue eyes had met grey almost instantly. He had seen them and despite that continued to approach.
Aragorn was relieved when he chanced upon the elven guard. He had been afraid he wouldn't make it in time.
"Who goes there? You pass through Silvan territory." The blonde elf called down from the trees, clearly the one in charge. There was an air about his words that was both challenging and unfavorable, if the arrow pointed at his heart was anything to go by.
"A friend." Aragorn's confident voice rang out in the woods, "I bring ill-tidings from the East."
The ranger kept his posture open, unthreatening. Placating arms remained elevated, and he made no move to touch his sword. The gesture served its purpose, and the head elf's instant analysis deemed his appearance curious enough to warrant a closer look. The immortal let his grip on his bow fall lax and descended lightly, soles padding softly against the soil. The others quickly followed him.
"We have no friends in the East." was the wary reply, spoken steadily in the lilting accent of the Mirkwood elves. Cool blue eyes were questioning and defensive, and the Dúnadan wondered at the woodland creatures momentarily. The elvenfolk here were so different from those residing in Imladris, that he found the militant greeting entirely un-elf-like.
"I bear the recommendation of Lord Elrond."
That seemed to get his attention. The elf's eyes narrowed instantly.
"Then you should know the names of his children." A test. Aragorn wanted to roll his eyes. They hardly had time for all this, while orcs were approaching en masse.
"The twins are his eldest—Elladan, and Elrohir, and then the fair Arwen, and yours truly. Estel, at your service." A short bow left his interrogator silent.
"The Dúnadan." He observed faintly, nodding as if his story aligned. "What bad tidings do you bring?"
"An army of orcs march in this direction. They could easily arrive within the hour." Many of the elven faces hardened upon the dark prediction, but worry was struck on the leader's countenance. He cursed in the elven tongue.
"Anildor!" A brunette stepped forward upon the call of the other, the order barked so clearly that concern had laced into his expression as well. "Are you not among the fastest here?"
"Yes, mellon-nin, but you should be the o—"
"Warn the others. Have the gates closed and a perimeter fortified immediately." The protest of the underling was not lost upon Aragorn, even when he gave a reluctant nod.
"Hir-nin, you are not supposed to be here. Return to inform the King yourself." The hushed words were barely audible, the brunette leaning towards the blonde's ear. Nevertheless, the ranger looked on with mild interest in spite of the looming scenario. Hir-nin? That title was reserved for royalty.
"Fly swiftly." There was no further room for debate.
"You don't enact a perimeter under normal conditions?" The human couldn't help but sound incredulous—this region was hostile territory, after all.
"It is the eve of Mereth-nuin-Giliath." The elf responded with a grimace, "Our guard is down but twice a year."
"There are too many of them for that to be coincidence." Aragorn's brows were knit.
"How many?"
"Around two-hundred, but there may be more."
Another scowl.
"Preparations will take too long within the halls. We have to buy them more time." A thoughtful look flit across his features like a shadow, "You believe they have entered where the Forest River meets the tree line?" Aragorn gave a stiff nod.
"It's got the best footing for so many."
"I hope that you stand correct. I plan to intercept them." The ranger blinked as the elf barked an order to his companions, making way for the stream. He didn't know what possessed him to do so, but he followed alongside.
"That would be suicide." His tone was a far cry from polite, but the Captain of the Guard didn't seem to care.
"It may be our only chance to form an attack. If we draw them towards the Mountains of Mirkwood, we may stand a fighting chance yet."
"There are fifteen of you!" His outburst garnered a pause, and an assessing gaze.
"Estel, there are several thousand elves within those halls. Half of them are probably drunk, the other half not even touching their weapon of choice." The human could only see resolve in the blonde's eyes. "You have done a great deed for our people, and we expect no more from you. Seek refuge within the halls or vanish. Orcs do not spare men."
"Nor do they elves. I'm coming with you." His decision was made on the spur of the moment.
If these fifteen had been willing to forfeit their lives so quickly, he was going to make their fight worth something. The Wood elves were different, yes, but they were still kind-hearted creatures of the light. And something more, he couldn't quite place.
The party was in the trees again, flying with admirable speed.
"Upon sighting we provoke and run." The elvish was hissed amongst the rustling of branches, "If they don't follow we circle around to hold their attention. If they do, we dip south and head for the ravine beside the mountain pass." A ravine. So he had not yet accepted death as inevitable. Aragorn was steadily getting a picture of this elf's priorities, as well as the half-built strategy that was so quickly formed.
If they could make it to the mountains, which were still a ways away, perhaps a large number could be baited into a trap—not to mention the benefit of having the higher ground if they did reach it first. It was the best option available by far, and if Aragorn was given a fighting chance he would take it.
"I never got your name." His stride pulled him even with the fair-haired frontrunner.
"Legolas." He was given a nod of respect from the elf, those steely blue eyes sparking with anticipation for the battle to come.
A knot of anxiety was twisting in his own stomach, but the determination of Legolas and the others pulled him along like a tide. If their positions had been reversed, what wouldn't he have done to save his own home? How far would he be willing to go?
His answer was right beside him; composed as a predator, eyes trained ahead. Crazily, it was enough to get Aragorn reconsidering the suicidal plan itself. From the deadly serious look on the elf's face, it was impossible to tell.
Who was about to be hunted?
*Mellon-nin*—"my friend" (Sindarin)
*Hir-nin*—"my lord" (Sindarin)
Legolas had yet to feel alarm gripping his chest, but he knew that if he were to stop and contemplate it would seize upon him like a disease. There were few moments like these where the act of doing was simpler than waiting. He knew his plan was hard-headed, and foolish. It probably wouldn't stall the army long enough to make any difference, but there was nothing left to do but try.
And the hope of reaching the cliff-side was enough to keep his thoughts away from the dark musings that taunted him. Estel, indeed. If it weren't such a dire situation, he would be laughing at the irony. Hope itself had just delivered news of destruction.
Though it was a useless sentiment, Legolas cast a sideways look upon the human daring enough to accompany them. At least Hope fought alongside them, and was not yet lost.
Now, the people of these woods knew their forest well. If they could fight among the trees, they might be able to hold off pursuers for the hour long sprint from this point towards the Mirkwood Mountains. It would be an incredibly tall order, but it may still be possible.
Where they were now, he could hear the trickle of the stream, and could see the break in the branches ahead. The trees were mumbling to themselves sinisterly, unsettled by what lay nearby. His ears perked up when he realized that the forest was silent. The usual buzz of insects and stirring of creatures had halted eerily.
"Daro." He quietly commanded his companions, bow pulled taut with three arrows notched already.
They reacted instantly, forming rough lines in the trees. Even the human pulled his recurve bow out, eyes scouring the stretch of forest ahead. It wasn't long before the dark skins of the orcs broke through the brush.
Without hesitation, Legolas loosed his arrows.
The creatures fell dead before they even sighted the concealed elves.
"Push-dug glob!" The insult was spat heatedly, as the others came upon their skewered kinsmen. Their dim, murky eyes sought out their attackers, perched high in the trees. The arrows were suddenly flying without respite, the thwish of release audible amongst angry battle cries in Westron and Black Speech alike. The shafts of elven make struck home again and again, methodically knocking the torrent of beasts back.
More and more fought their way forward, the corpses beginning to pile up haphazardly. Yet there was no end, and the foul-smelling beings had begun to fire their own rough arrows in return. Their foes had lousy aim, but the quantity of projectiles guaranteed that some would hit their mark.
"We have to fall back now!" Estel shouted to his side, intercepting an enemy's arrow with his own. Legolas' nod of assent was all he could spare, loading and reloading his bow with the speed no other elf could match.
"Break for the pass!" The organized line of archers now thundered through the trees, turning and picking off the orcs that came too close. When the young brunette—Elrilith, Legolas remembered— tarried too long, a shaft struck him in the calf.
He cried out as he slipped from the tree limb, foot misplaced. Legolas had only just turned his head, when he saw the ellon immediately overrun by orcs. Maces, axes, and swords tore the poor creature apart within seconds. It was so feral that the prince felt bile rise in his throat.
Still they did not stop. They could not stop.
Swifter than any orc, they bounded through the trees, shrieks of death and fury following them. When the trees grew sparser as they neared the mountains, they ran. Hard leather boots pounded into the rocky soil, clambering up the slight incline with the din of pursuit roaring in their ears.
It seemed the full force of orcs had taken their bait, but Legolas didn't feel so lucky. The chase they gave was vicious, no-holds-barred. Live or die. The closer they got, Legolas could almost think of entertaining the hope that he could live past this day. But that was before they hit the clearing.
It felt like they had been running for ages when far less time had passed. The unshakeable order of the elven guard had slipped into frantic exertion. The forest broke, and evening light dappled the greying rocks underfoot. Legolas found himself out of breath for the first time in many years, but he had enough presence of mind to make for the ravine quickly. The drop off of the cliff face was sudden, immediate, and their only weapon to balance the odds against so many. Already, his quiver felt too light for his liking. Against his better judgement, he tossed a look over his shoulder.
He really shouldn't have.
The prince had thought that the endless plucking off of their pursuers would have made a considerable dent in their adversaries' power. But there were far more than he had thought. Of the two hundred Estel mentioned, Legolas thought fifty had to be lying dead, strewn over gnarled roots and cracking leaves. But the army held strong, a single legion trampling the brush as they left the forest. An intimidating mass of ugly, disfigured faces wielding nasty, iron tools. The blood-letting had hardly begun.
Suddenly he felt he had failed again. In a futile attempt to save others, he had managed to lead the few that relied most heavily on him to their deaths. He cast a short look to those that followed him. Bright countenances were now steely and exhausted, slower than usual and grim as the mountains that towered over them. Estel alone seemed full of energy and confidence where the others neared despair.
Head shaking to dispel his pessimism, Legolas set his sights on the barely visible shift in elevation that stood landmark to the deep ravine carving through the mountainside. To either side were boulders and stone that traced the base of two jutting mountains.
"Gwaem!" Upon command, the elves sharply turned to their right, so close to the edge that he could spare a glance into the dark pit, an enchanted stream glittering at the bottom with the last rays of day.
The shade was cast in long strokes across the craggy ground, and soon, the people of the light were scaling the low precipice to gain the higher ground. With wit enough to protect as many of the undefended backs of his party as he could, Legolas fired arrow after arrow to intercept and take out the projectiles of the orcish archers. When the first elvish bowmen reached the apex, a good ten meters above, Legolas began his own climb.
The enemy army had eaten away at their lead considerably, and a blade was already whizzing past his ankle as he picked his way up the rock face. There was something to be said for Wood elves with high ground, though. Formation spotless and aim unerring, the orcs nearest to the precipice never stood a chance.
*Estel*—"hope" (Sindarin)
*Daro*—"stop/halt" (imperative conjugation of 'deri') (Sindarin)
*Push-dug glob*—"stinking filth" (Black Speech)
*Ellon*—"male elf" (Sindarin)
*Gwaem*—"Let's go!" (Sindarin)
Aragorn blinked the sweat from his eyes, picking out his next target. The orcs closest to the edge of the pit were stumbling and toppling in, stunned by their unexpected change in terrain. His aim was not as perfect, nor as rapid as that of the Silvan elves, but it was during times like these he was grateful to be competent with a bow. The Dúnadan knocked another two orcs back from approaching the stones below. It was no good, though. After a couple orcs scaled the wall they would be flooded all too quickly. They had to scale back to a higher point. Already their advantage was waning.
"Half of you must fall back!" A progressive retreat was the only way to keep the orcs at bay long enough.
A lopsided bolt of wood whizzed past his head, and Aragorn reached for his quiver to silence the source. His hand grasped uselessly at air instead of the feathers that finned his arrows. He was all out.
The guard had begun to retreat to higher ground, and Estel tossed his tattered bow to the side. Unsheathing his reliable sword, he prepared himself to hold their current position. The enemy numbers remained far stronger than the elven party, but their ranks had dwindled significantly. In fact, both sides had lost a considerable amount. He scowled as he hacked at a hideous, dark head that peered over the ledge. They were coming faster now.
The volley that his allies kept up was slowing, fellow archers falling with mortal wounds and maiming ones. It helped that many orcish shots ran high, but too many hit home. When the last of the elves were able to scramble to higher ground, the ranger found himself standing side by side with Legolas. The blonde's own quiver held a single arrow, his bow slid over his shoulder, and twin daggers resting in his palms.
He was given a sharp nod of acknowledgement before the orcs were able to take the lower boulders.
It was all Aragorn could do to keep up with the writhing mass of enemies that twisted around them, his sword clanging metallically off of armor and weapons, clipping flesh and severing limbs. The blonde archer was wicked with his duel knives, occasionally saving him from a tough bind by tearing across the undefended backs of his adversaries. With the flash of the white hilts aiding him in the dimming light, Aragorn wrenched his sword out of the stomach of another beast.
An arrow sprouted from the neck of his nearest foe, and he turned to the orcs that had targeted Legolas' back. Using the long reach of his blade, he unleashed a deep gash diagonally across another's torso and sidestepped the swing of an iron-tipped club. Using the flat edge of his sword, he pushed the offender off-balance and took advantage of the opening to brutally separate its head from its body. It felt like his heart was pounding in his ears, and his arms ached with the exertion, but Aragorn managed to fight on.
It was dark now, the moonlight faintly illuminating the flash of metal, or the reflective eye of the nocturnal orc. It was only upon a lull in the tidal wave of orcs that Aragorn realized something astonishing.
They were winning.
It had been a long while since the orcs had met with the bedraggled line of remaining archers, and those that could manage best in hand-to-hand combat were still standing. Most all quivers were empty, the trill of elvish shouting clear above the garbled grunts of orcs. From his current position, Aragorn could only account for four of the original guard fighting on—he did not dwell on those lying cold on the bloodstained rock. They were all weary and slowing, the lithe grace of their technique failing as century old reflexes tired.
Victory stole upon them unawares. It was when the battlefield lay ripe with stinking corpses and rivulets of black blood that true silence filled the air, marred only by the panting of the conquerors. The forest was a black silhouette, the solitary figures that remained upright stumbling towards one another.
"For Mirkwood!" An elf's voice cracked with exhaustion, his wise face marked with scratches and blood.
Half-hearted murmurs of agreement followed, pride in some countenances and sadness in others.
"Come near the fire." The familiar timbre of Legolas voice beckoned, a flickering of red light licking across flint and wood. Shadowed figures were illuminated with the dancing flame, and Estel found himself cautious to claim relief.
Had ingenious strategy and unerring skill really led such a small force to victory? It was impossible that they still stood, yet they did. Five of fifteen.
Eleven casualties against two hundred.
(A/N) Thanks for reading, part three'll be up soon! Comments and criticisms are welcome, by review and PM! Thanks for reading!