Chapter 9

Legolas awoke again to darkness and gave a groan. The drugs that the healers had administered were wearing off, and he raised a leaden arm and touched his chest. The rough cotton and muslin told him that a huge poultice had been wrapped around his torso, all the way around to his back, and down past his abdomen. It was enough to tell him that his injury was very serious and that he had probably only been brought back from the edge of death because of the magic of the healers.

He tried to raise his head, and the sinuses blocking his hearing cleared, but it still felt as if he was raising a ton with his neck. The chaos of death filled his head, and he fell back against the pillow, panting.

There were Orc cries and the squelching of boots stepping in puddles of mud… or puddles of blood. The elf closed his eyes and shivered under the thin covers, the cold having nothing to do with the chill running down his spine.

Dol Guldur must have attacked again and here he was, injured, with no defense.

It was not that he did not trust Aragorn to command in his stead, but it was the fact that he knew that they had no hope.

* * * *

Melian did not know what spirit possessed her as she dodged and ducked the warriors, running past as black arrows fell all around her, piercing the elves and getting stuck in the ground, making the pass nearly inaccessible. She knew, however, that she had a purpose, and she needed to get out of these woods.

A healer that recognized her called her name, but she paid no heed, and with the natural grace of the elves, dodged the arrows on the ground. Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps Destiny made her impervious to the deadly rain that was falling, but arrows seemed to just fall short of her, flying inches next to her head, body, and limbs, and once, even getting caught in her billowing sleeve, but never harming her flesh.

If things had been less urgent, she would have gotten down on her knees and thanked Elbereth, but she could not.

A warrior fell dead in front of her feet, five shafts protruding from his chest, and she screamed in fright, disgust, and hatred for the Orcs. They dare, her mind was blind to all else but the brutality of the creatures that were once like her. THEY DARE! Her scream of terror turned to that of pure anger, and she bent down and grasped the sword from the dead elf's hilt, and pulled with all her might, bringing forth the heavy blade.

The angels or the demons that crazed her gave her impossible strength as she lifted the sword, the blade at least five feet in length and the entire weapon possibly outweighing her. The glitter of metal sent her into a bloodthirsty madness, and she plunged forward, the weapon in one hand, the blade held above her head, and ran through the line of elves.

The only image flashing again and again in her mind was that of killing: slashing and thrusting her sword through an Orc's neck and bringing forth the satisfying fountain of ruby to pay the due of killing so many of her brothers and kinsmen.

"Push forward!" she heard the king cry, and she took this literally. Pushing, shoving, and sometimes even knocking others down, she surged forward, more like a madwoman than a decent elf, and was nearly at Thranduil's side before she knew it.

Still arrows fell, but she had already forgotten her luck and took it for granted that she was still alive and whole. It was destiny that she should live.

The army broke from the trees, pouring forth, a leak turning into a full-fledged ocean, swarming from the forest. Arrows still flew, but less now, as the Orcs in the trees could no longer reach them with their short bows.

Melian did not look back, and no one seemed to notice the servant in her brown, drab, dress, sword in hand, plunging into the battle with Thranduil and the rest of the elven warriors. Their numbers must have been only three-quarters of that before they met the Orcs in the trees, but they were enough.

Giving a high cry of laughter, fury, and war, the servant girl was swept into the battle, scratching, snarling, kicking, and swinging. Her lack of skill was made up for by her energy, and more than one Orc was slain by her deadly combination of shin and groin kicking and sword-slashing.

Lost in the midst of death, she gave a short roar that resembled that of an Orc's.

* * * *

The man felt a rib break and with an already opened mouth, gave a silent shriek of pain, because there was no air left in him to produce any sound from his larynx. The Urûk sneered, raised its blade, but Aragorn was just in time to see another, wielding an elven blade, cut the Orc across the arm.

It was a pitiful blow of a novice, and it merely glanced across the creatures arm, causing more pain than actual damage, but the Orc removed his foot from the man's chest with a roar, and turned. Aragorn took in a lungful of the Valar-given air, but his strength had not yet come back to him, and he lay still, unmoving.

The warrior gave a piercing scream that chilled the man to the bone, an icy fist tightening around his heart, reminding him of an Orc cry. If he had been able to, he would have covered his ears, hoping never again to hear such a sound from the throat of one of the elven folk. For in that moment, he realized how the Dark Lord had made such beautiful people into the hated, foul Orcs.

All beauty and goodness has to balance with ugliness and evil, just as every day has to become night for this world to go on.

The elves were perfect because of a suppressed evil inside them that they did not even know of. Men could be driven to do inhumane things, and though it took much more for elves to come to the same fate, they could become full of hate, just as men. The evil of Sauron was able to bring this darker side of even the Fair Folk forward, and no doubt, mutilated their bodies to his desired effect.

Aragorn felt a bead of sweat drip down his brow as he realized more: if even men, such imperfect people, are made with as much hate as with love, then how much evil could come from elves, the very models of good?

He could not see the elf, who was diverging the Orc's attention from its prey, but he hoped to the Valar that the elf had not been driven to the same fate as the Orc because of his hatred for it. With another marrow-freezing cry, the elf thrust the blade through the Urûk's neck, where its helm met its armor. It made a gurgling noise in its throat, but its body went limp.

The elf extracted the weapon with ease, and the Urûk fell, flying crimson droplets spattering Aragorn. The man opened his eyes after the initial splash of Orc-blood, and looked up at the face of his savior, distorted in hate, but giving both fear and hope, for he knew now that Thranduil was here, but never expected this elf on the battlefield.

"Melian?"

* * * *

Laine was running at top speed, sword already drawn, in her left hand, ignoring the pain running up and down her right arm, for Ranien was easing it with his hand firmly in hers. However, when he jerked her back by stopping suddenly, she felt the wound tear and blood seep forth, a white-hot brand on her skin.

Before she could cry out in pain, the elf had put one hand over her mouth, having let go of her hand, and stopped her from running forward with his other arm around her waist. "Yrch!" he hissed in her ear, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise up, as he was so close, his mouth was only an inch from her ear.

Her breath quickened, not because of Ranien's warning of Orcs, but because her back was pressed tightly against his chest in more than a friendly way. The pain in her arm seemed to have disintegrated. "In the trees," he directed her gaze.

She tried to focus on the problem and looked into the darkness before her. She could see where the end of the path met the Gladden Fields, but not further. However, it was clear that Thranduil had gotten into the throes of the battle by the sounds in the night. She could only see pinpricks of torches in the distance, and wondered why the Orcs had decided not to burn the forest as they had done the night before.

The answer soon came when she looked toward the path itself. Almost directly in front of her feet, right as the path turned, arrows stuck out of the ground, nearly in a solid pattern. Among the shafts, dark figures lay, prostrate, and Laine nearly screamed again when she realized that they were dead elves.

The Orcs had hidden in the trees, ready for Thranduil's factions, and stopped them up like a dam. By the bodies littered among the arrows, the girl knew that the second faction was greatly diminished, and they needed all the help they could get.

Other than that, she could not discern anything, as she found it hard to concentrate with Ranien so near. She nodded once, and the elf moved the hand on her mouth, but to her delight, did not move the one around her waist. "How do we get past?" she tried to keep her whisper business-like, but failed to do so.

Ranien paused, then answered, "Climb the trees."

"I'm not an elf."

"Then we will run for it."

"No, wait," she said. "You can take the trees. It's safer."

"What?" she could almost see the mocking smile on the elf's lips. "And leave you, injured, mortal, and a woman at that, to take the more dangerous path by yourself? I do not think so."

"Then let's go," she intoned, though she was very reluctant to leave their accidental embrace. She tried to step forward, but Ranien held her back.

"Wait," he suddenly whispered, his tone more gentle than she had ever heard it before.

She turned, breaking away from him so she could look at him. In the night, she could only see the outline of his face, but his eyes peered forth from the gloom, shining brilliantly with their own light, with an expression she had never seen before. She looked closer, but it passed, and she was left breathless with anticipation.

"Before we go…" He took her elbows so that their chests were nearly touching, and she wanted to draw him into another embrace. "I want to tell you something…"

* * * *

The elf-maid did not respond to her name, but disappeared from the man's line of vision. Aragorn lay still until his breathing became steady, and hoped that no Orc stumbled upon him. A sharp pain still rose from his chest, and he knew that the broken rib must have shifted, and it would be unwise for him to move.

But he had to.

He had to get up, for King Thranduil was here, and he had to stay alive for Gondor… for Arwen…

Painfully, with stars appearing before his eyes, he sucked in his breath and tried to raise himself from the ground without bending his torso, and only moving his waist. He failed miserably, and fell back, the back of his head thumping against the hard grass.

He had to get up. He had to get up.

Aragorn put his elbows to the grass and breathed in once more with determination. Then, with all of his strength, he moved himself up with his arms, muscles straining, blind to everything except the pink and red stars in front of his eyes. The pain was indescribable, as his stomach hardened against it, his teeth clenching to block out all thought except for that of sitting up.

A hot lake seemed to spread across his chest, and he felt his skin give. A sickening cracking and ripping came from his torso, and he looked down at his armor.

It was leaking blood, and Aragorn's mind went into a state of shock.

Falling back a second time, twitching, he became unconscious.

His rib had broken through skin.

* * * *

Laine listened, slightly shocked, and her heart filling with a strange feeling she had never felt for this elf before as Ranien finished his whispered speech.

For a full minute, the two just stared at each other, Ranien expectant, and the girl's mind quite blank, gaping at the elf. Finally, she croaked. "You did not have to tell me that…" She seemed to lose her voice then, and had to swallow a couple of times before she could choke out her next sentence. "I already know." She felt her mind relaxing, and began to realize what the feeling was in her heart.

"You… you did?" the elf whispered, his lips only inches from hers. His arms had moved closer around her, and she had taken a small step forward.

She finally understood the nagging at the back of her brain. Ranien's speech had been filled with flourishes and nervous words that made no sense, but the final meaning was clear. All thoughts of Orcs were forgotten, and she clenched tighter at the lightweight sword in her hand.

She knew she to say something. He expected something.

"Look, Rae," she shook her head. "I know already. It's not news to me. I know women shouldn't go into battle. But I know what I'm doing.

She had never felt annoyance for this elf before, but now, it filled her heart.