Title: Walking Wounded
Summary: Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.
The Story So Far: The elven refuge of Lorien is close, but so are the foes gaining on the Fellowship from behind and about to cut them off from the front. There is only one way to survive - not only can they not stop, they now have to push faster and harder with what little strength they have left.
hi gang!
Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, discussed - or anything else that these modern new fanfiction . net features allow people to do - the third chapter of "Walking Wounded." We are now at the final chapter of this fic, and I hope everyone enjoys the ending.
I thank you for your time and as always, constructive comments and criticism are welcome! Please note, there will be an Afterword and a Bonus Mini-Fic following this chapter, so give it a read too and let me know what you think :)
Chapter 4: Sworn Duty
Elves by nature were fairly light and while compliant, Legolas' heavy leaning upon Aragorn's shoulders barely slowed down the man's brisk walk. The elf welcomed the assistance far more than he cared to admit, and focused all his efforts on keeping track of their foes.
One foot in front of the other they went, until their goal was in the near distance - finally within clear sight.
"I can almost just reach for it," Legolas murmured.
Beside him, Aragorn snickered. "If only it were so easy."
They saved their breaths and continued forward, and Legolas did as instructed and rested however way he could. Mostly he stayed alert and kept his staggering steps clear of Aragorn's hungry, powerful strides.
Only too soon, we will need to run…
"Daro," Legolas said under his breath, and Aragorn was quick to follow the elf's bidding. The adan lifted up his fist and the fellows behind them shuffled to a stop a beat later. He stepped away from Aragorn and the man, without hesitation, let him. The rest really had done him some good and he felt as refreshed and ready as he could be under the circumstances.
"The enemies are near," Legolas told his companions gravely, "but so are we. We need to start running."
"Frodo, to me," Aragorn commanded urgently, and the Ringbearer shuffled close, taking Legolas' place. Wordlessly, the other hobbits stood by their appointed warrior-escorts. Everyone's eyes looked aflame in the daylight, and Legolas felt a surge of strength go through him. The pain that had almost consumed him hours past and lingered on now shrank into a small, insignificant ball, buried deep.
I will get them to Lothlorien.
I will get them to Lothlorien.
Legolas took the last pinch of the stimulant he had been saving just for this occasion, and as before it made his heart beat quicker and all his senses sharper. That, coupled by his own will, made him stand taller.
"No matter what happens, Strider," Sam looked up at Aragorn earnestly, "Frodo reaches safety."
"The Ring cannot fall into the wrong hands," Legolas added. "Only forward, Aragorn. No going back."
Especially not for me.
Aragorn's eyes met his, and clearly understood what was unspoken. In Legolas' native tongue the man asked, "You ask it of me, but can you do it?"
It was his constant failing.
He had few weaknesses as a warrior but this was particularly glaring - he couldn't leave a comrade behind. He wouldn't follow such an order, and wouldn't order it done – he'd place himself in danger first and do the saving himself if he had to.
In a war-ravaged society as that of Mirkwood, where order and chain of command were all but sacred, the weakness earned him the ire of many a commander but the loyalty of those he aided. Other than the latter he was otherwise unrewarded. He'd been repeatedly injured. He'd been demoted once, which was a fine if deserved sting on his pride. Other punishments came and went – multiple deserved public scolding, formal disciplinary inquiries, restricted night guard duties, menial work, a night or two here and there confined to quarters (spared from the brig by his father's councilors, though Thranduil himself was most eager to put his son behind bars for his own good)...
This particular weakness became part of his legend, and more or less the same narrative would trail him from his time as a warrior to his short stint as a healer retrieving the most precariously located injured soldiers right up to his time with the Quartermaster's office. His peers had joked, if there was someone to save from the King's temper in his father's close counsel – trust Thranduilion to spare him. Legolas bore the punishments, rebukes and joshing reasonably well, until the time came that his actions got someone killed.
Legolas was restored to warrior's duties upon his father's reasonable satisfaction over his expanded education in the facets of running a Kingdom. The story began as it always did - a soldier fell behind, lost to the hordes if not for Legolas' defiance of a direct order for immediate retreat. The Prince saved the elf, which would have been how his other misadventures ended except this time, he too fell into mortal danger. The elves Rador and Bronon came forward to aid him and lost their own lives in the process. Legolas' actions saved one life but cost two elves theirs.
He made his report to his father formally, and prepared himself for grave punishment much deserved. Was he to be imprisoned? Stripped of his rank or perhaps even his warrior's status altogether? Disinherited? Banished? Publicly castigated? But Thranduil received him in a manner calmer than he felt he had any right to expect, and had even sent out the councilmen for privacy.
"I knew it was only a matter of time before we met here this way," Thranduil said, "speaking precisely of this matter."
Legolas' eyes stung. He wished desperately that he had had that wisdom too. He wished he could take back time. He wished he could have just listened to his commanding officer and pulled back when he was instructed to. Now two elves are dead when there could have been just one.
"I understand the severity of my actions," he said carefully, "and the gravity of its consequences. I accept full responsibility and I subject myself to the Realm's judgment. I seek the justice of the King for those who had died." He hungered for it. He almost ached to be punished.
"You didn't even give it a moment's thought, did you?" Thranduil asked, "When you shot forward to aid that elf."
"I heard and understood the commanding officer's orders to leave the fallen," Legolas said. "I have no excuse."
Thranduil let out a long, exasperated breath. "Ah, Legolas. Our lives here have been rough yes, but yours in particular has been kind in surprising ways too. You've never known retreat or defeat. You've never been wrong, and so what else were you supposed to learn?"
Legolas' brows furrowed, confused as to where this was headed.
"I cannot fault you for your daring," Thranduil expounded, "All too frequently you've defied orders and emerged correct and victorious. Countless soldiers continue to be among our ranks thanks to you, when we could have lost them long ago. What else were you supposed to learn, other than that maybe you had better judgment than those who commanded you? Other than that you alone can always somehow defy the odds. But as you can see... actions have consequences, and all too often not the ones we intend. Less often for you as your record has shown but clearly, – it happens."
"What should I have done?" Legolas asked, and his voice came out a hoarse whisper.
"What could you have done?" Thranduil asked with a resigned sigh. "You acted only as you knew how – as if you could always win. You are your history, Legolas. You are also... just what you are. I know you barely gave it a thought when you came after an elf who would otherwise have been lost. You are what you are, not even the most rigid training can change that. The King cannot change that, nor would I wish to. What I can do – what I have been doing - is change the environments within which you operate, and in this I am learning too. Rador and Bronon were seconded to your section but were primarily of the Royal Guard. Their main task was to look after you, and they died doing what they were supposed to."
The revelation brought Legolas into a sputtering rage. "You've been deploying minders for me?"
"Only recently," Thranduil admitted. "You've observed this yourself, Legolas. There is a greater intelligence, a larger plan at work driving our enemies in these trying times. The nature of the war is changing. Until we have better of knowledge of what we were going up against, the council saw it fit to issue you a protective detail. Your position can make you a valuable target."
Legolas ran his hand over his face and head in frustration. "Why was I not told?"
"What difference would it have made?" asked Thranduil. "You are all soldiers. The same outcomes were needed, the same commands would have been issued, and the same orders followed or in your case – defied."
"I don't know, adar," Legolas said, "If I had known they were tasked with my care I could have been more cautious. I could have made their jobs easier. Maybe. I don't know." He sighed and lowered his head. "Why would you tell me this now? Why?"
"Because you should know that they died doing their duty," Thranduil said. "They have that honor. You are here and safe, and free to make whatever good or bad choices or defeats or victories from this point forward, because of their work. Sometimes you will be right, other times you will be wrong. But they did their duty, so that you may continue to do yours. And the duty, the job – that is what is most necessary."
"So I am just to do what I am told?" Legolas asked dully, "to be a good soldier?"
"I said to do your duty, Legolas," Thranduil corrected gently, "I did not say you should do only as you are told. You aren't just a soldier, ion-nin. As my son and a Prince of the Realm, that is your blessing and your curse. Do what you feel is right for the objectives you must accomplish. Sometimes you have to leave a soldier on the field and other times you get to pull them back. Sometimes you will get hurt and other times people will hurt for or even because of you. Sometimes you will be wrong and other times you will be right. That is the burden you must carry. But faithfulness to your duty will always be correct."
It was how Thranduil could stand to lose soldiers while Legolas learned his lessons in running a Kingdom. It was how a father could stand to send his son out on a suicide mission. Pursuit of one's sworn duty will always be right.
"Do what you feel is right," Thranduil said, "But never compromise the mission. And in this, I find – you have never failed."
"Can you do it?" Aragorn asked again, insistently.
"It was my constant failing," Legolas admitted, "until Moria. Until… until Mithrandir. I let him fall, I had to, and his death has purchased for us our chance here."
Legolas had been on his bow, sending out shot after shot of covering fire for the Fellowship's escape. He wasn't very far from Gandalf at all, but if he had stopped and rushed forward to aid the fallen wizard, not a few of the arrows sent their way by orcs and goblins would have found a home of their bodies. The elf had done his job, just as Aragorn accomplished his by pushing everyone forward, and Gandalf did his own by holding the balrog back.
"I would do it again," Legolas said determinedly. "I am relieved this burden falls on you, Aragorn and not me. I am sorry, but it must be done. It is almost simple – all you have to do is run and not look back. The Ringbearer comes before all else. I know you of all people can keep sight of our sworn duty."
"In the far lesser culture of the dwarves," Gimli said pointedly, "It is considered impolite to speak in tongues incomprehensible to others of the same company."
He and Aragorn were still speaking in the elf's tongue, Legolas realized, and it was on the tip of his tongue to retort something back when Aragorn recovered first.
"Peace, Master Dwarf," he said with a teasing grin, adjusting as requested. "I was merely telling the elf to try and keep up."
"Four words in Westron," said Gimli in theatrical shock, "'Try and keep up,' and the indulgent elven tongue can all but write a book on it."
Aragorn chuckled and Legolas managed to withhold the small smile the dwarf had somehow wrung from his lips. They all just had to do what they all had to do.
Quietly, they all gathered their strengths and shook their limbs loose and stretched.
"Remember my friend," Aragorn told Legolas as they braced to run. They spoke in Westron, over Frodo's and Merry's heads. "You said it yourself – for your people, there is always something left somehow. And I know, you are among the best of them."
Legolas gave him a short nod.
And off they all went.
# # #
The hard run was difficult to sustain for everybody, more so for the hobbits. Not long after they began, Aragorn at the head of the line had to scoop up a faltering Ringbearer. He barely broke stride, and Legolas almost grinned proudly as he watched from slightly behind. Boromir and Sam soon followed suit sprinting past, while Gimli and Legolas had to pull and press forward Merry and Pippin whenever they lagged behind from the rear.
Legolas knew the exact moment that the others heard what he had been sensing for hours now - the thundering footfalls of dozens of their massed enemies from the northwest - when the company lost all regard for careful steps and stealth, and they ran forward blindly toward the boundaries of Galadriel's forest, marked by the looming golden trees.
They were so unbearably, achingly near.
Legolas' estimations had been right. He knew without a shadow of a doubt now, that the Ringbearer currently sheltered in Aragorn's arms, at the very least, was going to reach safety whether or not the rest of them did.
The thought gave him relief, but also an inexplicable weakness. His duty was almost accomplished. He shook the thought away, but it had already ushered in a tremble to his movements, and he realized he could barely breathe. He huffed what air he could find, in and out of his mouth, drying his throat all the more and irritating it enough for him to cough. The involuntary movement had his chest muscles tightening, and aggravating his remembered injury. It burned, and he coughed harder. And it ached more, and he coughed more. He doubled over but kept running.
His hands and feet operated outside of his conscious misery. He kept moving forward, and kept tugging at Merry and urging him on. He'd been right in this too, that adrenaline and desperation could take most of them across the final few steps to safety. They were almost there. They were really, really almost there...
Merry stumbled forward and Legolas pulled him up. They did not stop moving. They could not stop moving.
So close, Legolas thought. The trees were becoming larger and larger in his field of vision.
Behind him, he heard a muffled sound of falling and tangled limbs. Against his own advice of moving only forward but totally in keeping with his long history, he turned around and by instinct, ran back to where Pippin was on the ground tangled up with Gimli.
"Keep going!" he yelled to Merry as he dragged their companions up gracelessly and pressed them forward.
Gimli grunted a thanks hidden in some kind of curse about elves and hypocrisy. Legolas had no time to think it through. They started running again, losing bare moments.
Legolas found himself in the rear of the group, a position he did not often take given the use of his senses guiding them forward. In this instance he found he preferred it, seeing where everyone was. But he also knew he was slowing down, as every step took the closest person in front of him, Gimli, farther and farther away.
He grit his teeth and pressed forward. Never let it be said that a dwarf could outrun an elf! Forward, forward, only forward…
Only forward. He watched as Aragorn and Frodo vanished into the woods, and he felt his heart swell in triumph.
Only forward. Boromir and Sam soon after followed them.
Only fo-
He mis-stepped, and with the hard run came a harder fall. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he rolled twice before coming to a complete stop, on his back and staring up at the clear skies.
The clear skies turned pitch black and he was back in the cover of Mirkwood's trees. There were some shots only a handful of elves in all of Arda can make, his father's general had said, and the moment Legolas released he knew Brenion had been thinking of something exactly like this. The arrow whistled its lethal little song as it sailed into the dark to find its way to the enemy's heart.
He fired off one more shot and turned around to retreat, already knowing both arrows would hit. He is rewarded by the sounds of surprise and anguish behind him. Now all that was left to do was run.
The assassination of Sithrur would push back the elves' doom for a little longer. All Legolas and the other lightly scattered, eagle-eyed archers had to do was avoid enemy engagement and make it to a rendezvous point. In failing that, they had to make their own way home.
Make your way home...
A thick orc shaft whizzed by his head and he realized among Sithrur's followers had been at least one marksman too. He ducked and dodged, making himself a smaller and more dynamic target. It also slowed him down enough that a desperate, animalistic foe with vengeance and bloodlust could take advantage and catch up.
A figure burst from the foliage to his right, and he swung his knives at it and struck him down. Legolas broke stride only to hop over its wretched, fallen body. He'd barely landed when another orc dived at him, claws out, so blinded and hateful it did not even bother with a weapon. They landed in a foul tangle on the ground. This orc was almost pitifully easy to dispatch, but it had done enough to delay Legolas into facing another foe, this time someone more considered in his movements. This one engaged Legolas with a heavy, dirty, jagged broadsword.
Again, the creature was no match for the elven warrior. But the plain truth of things was that the orc did not need to be; they had bulk and numbers, and little regard for the survival of their kin. They threw themselves one after the other at the elves until they could gain ground by attrition.
Legolas had barely finished with the orc when another burst forth from between the trees, and his swinging club caught the elf right on the side of his head. The world burst. There were no other words for it. The world burst, and Legolas felt his head forcibly turn from right to left, and his body swing with the momentum of the blow, which was fully meant to kill. It was by sheer luck that his right arm still held his knife, and when he was hit, his fingers spasmed tightly against the hilt, such that when he turned before falling to the ground, the fine, sharp elven weapon cut across the orc's bare chest from waist to shoulder, killing it.
Legolas was not fully aware of the kill. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The skies brightened. Legolas realized he was still on that singularly infernal, eternal road between Moria and Lothlorien, and he was on his back looking up. He groaned and shifted, but with the impossible weight on his chest, the world shrank to nothingness again, and he retreated into himself for a small eternity, hovering on the edges of awareness and pain and danger-
Danger!
Heavy footfalls by his head dragged him back to a painful awakening. He rolled to his stomach and was promptly ill. The blow to his head was throbbing and bleeding, and he knew not how long he was unconscious, but he had to get to his feet. He pushed his way up, drunkenly, getting sick again along the way again but managing to keep a semblance of standing. His enemies were coming. He readied his knives.
Heavy footfalls by his head dragged him back to a painful, real! now! awakening. And by the gods, he was still on that singularly infernal, eternal road between Moria and Lothlorien wasn't he?
Legolas rolled to his stomach and was so dizzied he almost fell ill. He pushed up to his hands and knees and touched his head until he remembered it was a different day and a different injury, even if the enemy was the same and the pains similar.
Legolas reached for his knives as the footsteps came closer. Had he been unconscious for so long that their enemies have arrived?! He swung at the approaching foe.
"You have strength enough for that, you have strength to keep moving," the dwarf said, looking skeptically at the trembling knife pointed at his face.
Legolas growled at him disapprovingly. "What are you doing here?" the elf demanded, indignantly, "Only forward!"
"You said it to Aragorn," Gimli pointed out as he grabbed Legolas by the arm and started pulling, "he had the Ringbearer, not I."
Legolas growled at him, but did not shy from the dwarf's grip. From his position on the quaking ground, the sound and feel of the nearness of their foes had never been so immediate and he wanted to be away from there.
He pushed up while Gimli pulled. Ahead of them, Legolas saw Pippin and Merry enter the safety of the trees. Aragorn was settling them down to hide in the shade, and busied himself hiding their tracks and scent. Following that, Legolas knew what was coming next - that fool adan would be coming over to get him up too, if he did not do it himself and start running.
"Move!" Gimli prodded him, and Legolas felt a surge of anger at all of them. At a dwarf defying his instructions not to turn back and having the gall to issue him orders instead. At Aragorn about to spring forward in some harebrained rescue attempt. At himself for weakness.
An elf prince cannot even knock upon the doors of Mandos in peace, can he?
He pounded on the ground in frustration but found the strength to push up and start running again.
His injured, swaying pace was almost a match for the slower, heavier dwarf's. They ran and stumbled and urged each other forward, alternately. Aragorn was waiting for them at the edge of the woods, barely able to keep his feet planted there, his fiery eyes raking around desperately for the presence of their foes. He reached out his arms to Legolas and Gimli.
The moment they were within reach, Aragorn pulled them by whatever means he could – for Legolas, the adan caught cloak and pulled not a few golden strands of silken hair - and into the shadow of the trees. From Gimli's angry growl, Legolas deduced Aragorn may have tugged on a fistful of beard. Either way, the three fell in a heap on the ground.
Behind them, Legolas heard the thundering footsteps of their foes as the orcs made the turn from northwest of Lothlorien.
The elf hurriedly disentangled himself from Aragorn and Gimli and, on hands and knees, observed the movements of the despicable yrch. Like him, the rest of his company fell deathly still and silent as they crouched low in the trees.
It was a terrifying sight to behold, a large company of beasts by the dozens. They noisily turned and moved westward, growling at the boundaries of Lorien as they went, but eager to leave its nearness. They missed the concealed presence of the Fellowship completely.
None of the eight dared move or make a sound until their foes were out of hearing range and even then, they did so cautiously.
Legolas snickered to himself and coughed, which heralded an uncontrolled spasm in his lungs that left him gasping for air. He caught his breath dizzily, but felt warm blood trickling from his throat, through his teeth and down the corner of his mouth. He swiped at it angrily, but found energy for little else. He dropped to his rump on the ground, and looked up blearily as each of his companions rose to their feet. He caught Aragorn's worried gaze.
"An escape Mithrandir would be most proud of, I believe," the elf said quietly, with a small smile.
The reminder of their loss was acute, but Aragorn found it in himself to say, "He would have been especially invigorated by the close call."
"Aye," agreed Gimli, "And especially proud that we can set aside our differences, as was the case when I saved the life of the elf."
"I saved you first," Legolas pointed out, "so one can easily come to the conclusion that I ultimately saved myself."
"You did not save me!" Gimli snapped. "I was rising and I would have reached safety all on my own. You on the other hand, had your pointy-ears practically pressed upon the ground! You would have perished on that field without me!"
"And yet I am still perishing here," Legolas said wearily, "while you take your time making assertions you cannot prove."
"Perishing?" Aragorn asked, alarmed.
"I was just trying to be clever." Legolas sighed at his own thin, wavering voice. He found no inclination to rise from where he sat, looking up at his fellows.
"Now perhaps you would let me have a look at you," Aragorn determined. "And we can all catch our breaths."
"We will be found by patrols sooner or later—" Legolas said, attempting to put off the embarrassment of being tended in the open before their fellows. More pragmatically, he did not want to be insensate following what was could be an invasive healing procedure, before he could see everyone settled in the lair of the Lady Galadriel. Lothlorien was a refuge, yes, but their welcome was still uncertain given what they brought with them. As the lone elf and no less than a formidable King's son, they perhaps needed him to speak on their behalf.
"You will be seen to now," Aragorn said, booking no argument. To the others, he said, "If you could kindly give us room to work, my friends."
# # #
Aragorn and Legolas kept to where the elf sat, while the rest of the fellowship dispersed but stayed near. Near enough for Legolas to hear Gimli's slanderous warnings to the hobbits about the Lady Galadriel, whom the dwarf called a witch with dangerous enchantments. Legolas rolled his eyes, and Aragorn chuckled at him.
The man pressed his large hands against the sides of Legolas' face, and peered at him closely.
"Look at me," he murmured, and Legolas followed as instructed. Aragorn nodded to himself at some mysterious conclusion Legolas had no desire or energy to guess at.
His hands slid down to the elf's neck, where they stayed for a long moment while he mouthed a small, soundless count. He pressed his lips together into a grim line, and this time Legolas was compelled to say,
"You're making me nervous."
Aragorn grimaced. "I should have seen to you sooner."
"And yet we barely made it safely as it is," Legolas pointed out. He stifled a cough, and his chest spasmed again, hitching up and down shallowly. He felt as if he were breathing through a sieve. He reared up and kicked out, and dug his hands against the ground as he fought for air.
"Easy, easy," Aragorn murmured as he steadied Legolas with one hand to his chest and dug for something in his pack with the other. Leaves set in a paste he then shoved beneath the elf's tongue, past the mouth hung open in gasping breaths. Legolas' vision was tunneling, but whatever Aragorn had fed him slowly worked its way into his body and he felt his chest loosen up and his muscles begin to relax.
He took one clean breath in, and then another. He felt dizzied and drained, but no longer desperate. He opened his mouth to say his thanks, but Aragorn shushed him with a finger to his lips.
"Save your breath," he teased the elf, "and I wouldn't thank me just yet."
Legolas licked at his dry lips and nodded. His throat felt parched but he dared not drink just yet. He relaxed in the relief that he could more or less breathe again, and kept still as the man eased off his cloak and unfastened the straps that held his quiver. Aragorn also loosened his belt, and instead of removing his tunic and shirts, made the jagged rips upon them larger by cutting at them. Legolas sighed; it was a good tunic, and a beloved one. But he imagined the agony of having to remove the clothes over his head and slipping his arms past the sleeves, and appreciated Aragorn's foresight. Besides, with some time and rest, he was sure he would be able to mend it.
"You've been bleeding all this while?" Aragorn asked.
Legolas looked down at his side in surprise. The bandage he had hastily applied there was heavily stained in red.
"Must have been one of the falls," he rasped out. He cleared his throat, but it did not do much for strengthening his voice, which still came out feathery. "As I've said, I was really more worried about bruised lungs. On a lighter note..."
"At least I wouldn't have to peel off a crusted bandage," Aragorn finished for him, saving him more energy from wasteful speaking. "Never let it be said that you are a pessimist."
Legolas snorted at him.
Aragorn removed the bandage gently, and he had careful hands but the wound was bad enough that it still made the elf stiffen. Even the barest exposure to air felt as if it was burning his oversensitive nerves there, making his eyes water. He blinked aggressively against tears that had come unbidden. He jerked when Aragorn started to peel off his hastily-applied bandages, prompting the healer to again, press a palm against his chest.
"Easy there, Legolas."
His breaths came in hard and fast, and short and inadequate as the man prodded at his wound. It did no favors for his already damaged lungs. His vision tunneled again, but there was something keeping him from oblivion. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He felt his brows furrow in concentration at this nagging, nagging thing. There was something he had to say.
"Aragorn," he struggled, "remember our welcome here is not a guarantee. Times are difficult and elves have had to be more wary, even if we weren't bringing them great danger. You must think of contingencies if we are not allowed through."
Aragorn winced. "Aye, I am aware of that."
"If I am... if I should be," Legolas went on, "If I should be incapacitated when we are intercepted, use my name. Do you understand? Tell them I am Thranduilion, and the Elvenking will expect their assistance in my care. Make something up if you have to. Tell them something grave. It will buy us time."
Aragorn grinned at that as he worked. "Ah, Legolas. You really do find utility in everything."
The elf wracked his brain for something else, because saying what had been in his mind was not quite enough to ease him. What was it, nagging at the edges of his awareness? Was he sensing something odd...?
"Aragorn-!"
Legolas exclaimed the name as he shot to his feet and by instinct readied an arrow, aimed right at the face of another elf. He jumped slightly when a similar weapon was pointed by his head.
The Galadhrim seemed to come out of nowhere, and he wondered how much more quickly he would have sensed them if he hadn't been feeling ill, or if they really were near-undetectable and almost one with their forest.
Aragorn rose to his feet with arms raised over his head in surrender. Legolas' body trembled in exhaustion at the sudden movements he had made and the posture of holding a bow, and though he was loathe to lower his weapons while one was aimed at his face, he did so resignedly. What he did not expect was the numbness in his hands, or for the weapon not only be lowered to his sides, but dropped to the ground from seemingly nerveless fingers. He looked down at them in surprise.
The Marchwarden came forward then, trailed by a patrol of elves who had rounded up the rest of their bedraggled company. Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but could find no breath for words. His legs shook and folded beneath him.
Aragorn shot forward and caught him by the arms, lowering him to the ground slowly.
"All right, all right," Aragorn said to him gently, "Rest now, mellon-nin. I can take it from here."
The man deposited Legolas down to sit, but he was determined to have his say. "I am Thranduilion," he claimed, in the best imitation of his father. "I expect your aid."
The Marchwarden's brows rose in surprise, and so did Aragorn's.
"So you are," the Marchwarden said with a small bow.
Legolas swayed and more or less slipped against his side to the ground. All care for appearances was gone, and he finally let his miseries overwhelm him. He closed his eyes against strangers staring, and curled into himself until the ground fell away and he felt nothing except the most important thing – his duty was, for now, done.
THE END
February 22, 2018
AFTERWORD – The Method of the Madness
Table of Contents
I. The Story
A. The Original Version of "Walking Wounded"
B. Bringing in the Past
C. Lessons of the Past
II. The Characters
A. Mirkwood as a Character
B. Thranduil
C. Legolas
III. Thank You's
IV. A Bonus Mini-Fic: The Fetcher
When Thranduil is injured, it is a given that Legolas would temporarily take over his duties as King. But the younger elf takes over an unexpected role too.
