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"We are here," Aragorn said to himself as he crouched in the gravel, his black attire dusted white from the powdery dirt. He stared ahead of him at the daunting path ahead, as they had reached the Jagged Crossing. Sharp, jutting boulders poked from the mountainside as they stared at its summit high above.
Next to him, Frodo gulped nervously. Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded with encouragement. The remainder of the Fellowship was equally silent, not realizing the full potential of the dangers the mountain possessed.
Gandalf stepped forward, staff in hand, "We have reached our destination," he spoke in a deep voice, "Our friend and companion Legolas is alone to fend for himself against a pack of Orcs and Wargs. We must swiftly rush to his aid."
"Aye!" Gimli wielded his axe.
Boromir continued, "Let us take the mountain," he nodded assuredly, "we have seen the Orc and Warg carcasses the Elf has left behind in his chase. He must be weary and running low on ammunition. We must march!"
"How many…," Merry gulped, "do you think there are up there, Gandalf…?"
"Too many for our Elf friend to fend off alone."
"An Orc pack may have up to two dozen or more in their ranks," Aragorn spoke, "Legolas has managed to slay six of them. The first we encountered at our original camp. The carcasses ceased after the River Valley."
"What stopped them?" Sam asked, "Was he no longer able to fight them off?"
"Perhaps," Gandalf bowed his head, "our friend has suffered an injury leaving him unable to protect himself against these creatures from Mordor any longer."
"Then we musn't dally!" Gimli growled, "Let us continue on!"
Thunder clapped in the distance, grey clouds gathered. The Fellowship began to climb the steep, treacherous path of the Jagged Crossing. Aragorn, Boromir, and Gimli took the charge. The Hobbits hobbled along in the middle as Gandalf managed the rear. They climbed the mountain with haste, desperate to find their missing friend.
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Legolas had managed to free himself from the Warg carcass, but he was still in danger. The pursuing Wargs were closer than ever, having caught his scent and path while he lay unconscious under the beast.
He had managed to climb halfway up the mountainside. A grey sky grew darker as rain approached. Legolas had found a small, narrow cave just large enough for him to fit through to find shelter for the night. As dusk approached, he needed rest. Usually, the Elf was spry and fit enough to continue on even in the dead of night, but he was gravely injured and weary.
Once he had reached the sanctuary of the cave, Legolas dropped his bow and quill with a shaking hand. His wounded arm was trembling, blood seeping down his pale skin and dripping from his fingers. The scent of his blood was more potent, the Wargs could grasp its scent easier. He had to tend to the wound quickly.
He sat against the rocky wall of the cave, hidden in shadows. Thankfully, his Elvish eyes could see rather clearly in the dark, but even now his vision was hazy. His injuries were taking a toll on his body, dulling his senses and the immortality of the Elves.
The exhausted Elf rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, bright red blood soaking the fabric. The temporary tourniquet he wrapped around it was no longer effective, he had to clean the wound. However, he was low on supplies and remedies. He would have to keep the wound bound tightly to avoid further blood loss for now. Legolas tore an even larger, thicker cloth from his cloak. The torn clothing made his heart clench, as Elves never allowed dirty, damaged clothing. In this instance, the more pressing matter was his injury. With shaking fingers, Legolas tightly wrapped the long cloth around his arm. He had to stifle a painful groan from the excruciating pressure, and he finished tying off the knot.
The effort had left him even paler than usual, a cold sweat on his brow, and panting for breath. He was weak, weary, and losing hope. The pursuing Orc pack had provisions with them, prepared for their journey. Legolas had abandoned his company and embarked on a dangerous chase across half of Middle Earth. He had not eaten or slept in the days since he parted, and the impact of his wounds left him aching and exhausted.
Legolas eyes opened with a start, as he realized he was drifting to sleep. His body yearned for the rest, but he knew he could not until the wound on his torso was properly cared for as well. Gathering his remaining strength, the Elf lifted the cloth of his tunic to expose his pale, bleeding skin. The wound was deep, inflicted by sharp Warg teeth. The beast had managed to bite as he attempted to dodge its snapping jaws.
Legolas did not have enough cloth to wrap this wound, he needed an alternative. His glazed eyes scanned the remainder of the cave. Except for a few dry leaves and pebbles, it was empty. The Elf unhooked the cloak from around his neck and wrapped the piece around his waist. With a tight pull, Legolas tied the cloak around his torso to stem further bleeding.
This last action drained the remainder of his energy as he cried out in pain. The Elf slumped to his side, eyes closing from pain and exhaustion as he hoped no Orc, Warg, or creature find him vulnerable in his temporary sanctuary.
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