Chapter Twenty One: Distant View of Home

So a long chapter for you today, which I'm sure none of you will mind! There is plenty of Legolas and Belhadron in this one, as well as some Bilbo and Bard, and a little Gandalf at the beginning. Legolas and Belhadron also get some more action this chapter, and there's some light angst. I hesitate writing angst, because I don't know whether I would call it angst, but it's sort of close? When I write angst I always worry that everyone has different definitions of what constitutes angst, or how much angst I mean when I say light angst or plenty of angst, etc, and that some people will be disappointed because they thought they'd be more, or something, but I guess that is one of the hazards of writing.

Oh, what I write about Legolas not being particularly fond of his title, what I mean is that he doesn't like people treating him differently because of it, not that he isn't proud to be his father's son or anything. That is explained later on, but I just thought I'd say it here as well.

Warning for light injury and a slightly upsetting bit in the first scene. As always, reviews are very welcome.

0-o-0-o-0

Bilbo wandered through the camp aimlessly. He had spent the best part of the day with the Dwarves and Gandalf, grieving for Thorin and Fili and Kili, but truthfully, he had felt a little out of place in their tents. He had not known those dead for decades, had not grown up with them or watched them grow from children, and though there was a deep friendship between him and all of them, he felt as someone sitting on the outside, looking in at a grief he could not understand.

He was not a Dwarf, after all. Hobbits grieved with companionship, with great feasts and loud tales of remembrance. Dwarves appeared to grieve in silence, or with close friends and kin. And the elves… Well, the elves grieved with song.

Bilbo could hear it now as he trudged through the camp. The pyres for the men and Dwarves were burning brightly some ways away, but the elves had completely refused to burn their dead, and instead were digging shallow graves. And as they dug they sang, songs that left Bilbo with a deep ache in the pit of his stomach and fresh tears on his cheeks. The elves wove their haunting melodies that hung around the camp, a balm to the raw edges, and it was sad and beautiful at the same time.

Further off, in the valley before the gates of Erebor, large, darker fires burnt. The Dwarves, mostly, had been hard at work to burn the corpses of the orcs, clearing a path to Erebor itself. The banners that had been strewn across the valley were picked up and burnt, if they belonged to the orcs, or returned to the right people if they did not.

Bilbo found himself spinning his ring around the tip of his finger, and forced himself to take his hand out of his pocket. Disappearing would not help him now, and he had noticed an elf or two give him a wary glance as he passed, as if they could tell what was in his pocket.

He wandered through the camp until he came to the outside of one of the large tents, filled with the wounded. Someone was knelt outside, and as Bilbo approached he saw it was Bard. He was washing his hands, and the water that dripped from them was stained pink.

"Bard!" Bilbo exclaimed, hurrying closer. "I thought you were unharmed?"

Bard raised his head, and jumped slightly upon seeing Bilbo. "I am," he said, grabbing a cloth and drying his hands off. "The brother of one of my captains just died. He started coughing up blood, and then it was all we could do to stop him convulsing and falling off the-" He cut himself off. "I'm sorry," he said. "You don't want to hear this."

"How is your captain?" Bilbo asked. Now he was looking, he could see the darker stains down one of Bard's sleeves, and the spattering across his chest. Bard himself hadn't seemed to notice.

Bard let out a heavy breath. "Grieving," he replied simply. "I'll see to him once he is ready or once his grief becomes something I need to deal with, whichever comes first. Is there anything you needed?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No, I'm sorry to disturb you," he said. "I'll just-"

"You're not disturbing anyone," Bard said with an attempt at a smile. "You are respected and honoured by everyone here, Master Baggins. Anything you need, you only have to ask."

Bilbo ducked his head. "I just would like to go home," he said. "But I don't think that's something you can provide. Nor can you bring people back to life, or heal their wounds."

Bard's expression softened. "I am sorry," he said. "For Thorin and Fili and Kili, and all the others who have died. I am truly sorry. I never wanted anyone to die. But," he said, sitting down on his heels. "If it helps, they died fighting for what they believed in, not for that gold or that mountain or anything so trivial."

Bilbo paused. "Do you really believe that?" he asked.

"I have to," Bard replied steadily. "Or else nothing makes sense." He huffed a bitter laugh, running one hand through his hair. "There's so much to do," he said. "And I don't know if I can be responsible for so much. And yet, at the same time, how can I trust anyone else to do it? But it would be so easy to hide from it, to pass all of the responsibilities over."

"My dear Bard, I wouldn't know," Bilbo replied. "I've never had such responsibility, and I'm afraid I wouldn't know the slightest thing about what to do now. I just have my home to get back to, my books and armchair and garden." He paused. "Though I don't know how I can return to such a life after all of this."

Bard barked a laugh. "Don't we all," he muttered. He looked up at Bilbo. "I never asked," he said. "How are you? You are not hurt?"

"Other than a nasty lump on the back of my head, I am unharmed," Bilbo replied, feeling the lump still at the base of his skull, where he had been knocked out by something. "This nice mithril shirt kept me from being damaged further. I'm merely tired now, and waiting."

"Everyone is," Bard murmured. "But it should only be a few more days until we return to the lake. I'm going to speak to Dain later today, about rebuilding Laketown and other things, and maybe he will listen to me and help." He didn't say it, but Bilbo could guess what he was thinking, about Thorin and the Dwarves and the past few weeks.

"My dear Bard," he said. "You and your people lost a lot, and I daresay some blame does indeed lie with the Dwarves for that. But you came to Thorin dressed for war! There were fourteen of us, and three thousand of you. What else was Thorin to do but fence himself in and defend from what he saw as an attack?"

Bard grimaced. "I'll admit that I didn't handle that too well," he muttered.

"Oh, I don't blame you," Bilbo said hastily. "Not really. From what I've gathered you'd only just become the leader of the men of Laketown, and I cannot fault you for stumbling when I know what it is like to be thrust into something with no idea what you are doing. In hindsight it is easy to spot our mistakes," he added, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. "But it's over now, at least. I doubt very much that things would have been different, had you acted differently." He shuddered. "Those orcs still would have arrived. Whether or not you were on good terms with Thorin could not have changed much."

Bard smiled wearily. "Thank you, I suppose," he replied. "But I was in the wrong, then, I think. Perhaps if I had been more friendly then things might be a little better now."

"Oh, I think your latest actions speak for themselves," Bilbo said. "At least, from what I can see. You allied with the Dwarves in the end, and you fought together. You're still together now, even if the elves seem to dislike the whole situation a bit." He sighed slightly. "They live for a long time, I'm told, and so I imagine it's quite hard for them to let go of an old grudge."

Bard, to his surprise, laughed under his breath. "You have no idea," he murmured. He sat back on his heels, running the cloth in his hands through his fingers. "Still, it's a lot that's changed. A lot more that is going to change. And a lot of responsibility to shoulder." His voice trailed off, seemingly talking to himself rather than the hobbit next to him.

"The camp seems so empty," Bilbo commented, looking around and trying to change the subject. "It's a little strange, after seeing it so full only a day or so ago."

Bard nodded. "Most of the elves are out scouting, and hunting down the orcs," he said. "I know Legolas took a company of sixty out, hunting down a large band of orcs that fled the fight. Most of the elves are doing the same, though I know Legolas' company was ordered to do as much as they could without breaking themselves and then return in a few days, so they'll be back soon." In what state, he wasn't sure, but he didn't put it past the elves, especially Legolas and the elite with him, to spend the entire time on the move and completely exhaust themselves in order to hunt down as many orcs as possible. It seemed like something they would do.

"I suppose the Elvenking would want Legolas back sooner rather than later," Bilbo muttered to himself, not seeing Bard's curious look. "I do feel rather useless at the moment, though. Is there anything you need help with, Bard?"

Bard shook his head, and made to say something but was interrupted by the rustling of the tent door in front of them. An elf, one of the healers by the looks of them, stuck his head out. "Lord Bard?"

Bard pushed to his feet. "Yes?" he replied.

"Can you please get your captain?" he asked. "We do need the space, and in all honesty he might start lashing out soon. I'd rather he didn't do that in my tent."

Bard nodded, and started forwards. "Of course," he said. "Excuse me, Master Baggins."

"Not at all," Bilbo replied. "You have more important things to do than keep me company." Bard nodded distractedly in reply, and then disappeared into the tent. Bilbo, taking a seat outside, could hear Bard's voice, at first soft and then steadily growing sterner as the captain apparently resisted.

After a few minutes there was some sort of banging and muffled commotion, and then Bard reappeared. A man stumbled out of the tent, Bard behind him. The man made a garbled sound of protest and spun on one heel, only to run into Bard.

"Let go!" he cried, fighting at Bard's grip as Bard dragged him away. "Get off! I need to- I have to…" His words were slurring together, and Bilbo watched with an ache in his chest as Bard stood in his way and pushed him back.

"Haldon," he snapped sternly. "Captain!"

Haldon came to a ragged halt and stood there, chest heaving. "I need- my brother…" Those were the words that seemingly broke him, for he doubled over with a choked sob. Bard reached out and Haldon grabbed blindly onto his arm, hauling himself upright even though his body trembled beneath him.

"I know," Bard said, his voice softening. "But not here. Come on." He pushed gently at Haldon and began to walk him away. Haldon made one last aborted effort to return to the tent and Bard grabbed him, slinging one arm around his waist and pulling him back. "Haldon," he said firmly, though Bilbo thought he could hear the grief colouring his voice. "He's dead. There's nothing you can do. He's dead."

Bilbo watched as Haldon sagged back against Bard upon hearing the words, the breath knocked out of him. Bard grimaced, and then pulled the man up and steadied him as he walked him away, out of the camp towards the grey expanse of rock on all sides. A minute later, maybe less, and Bilbo was sure the cry he heard was Haldon in the midst of his grief.

Bilbo sat on the floor for a while, using a discarded cloth to wipe down Sting. People moved around him, and though he got a few more glances, more people recognising him, still he became unnoticeable fairly quickly. It suited him, at the moment.

Of course, it only lasted for so long. A shadow fell across him and then he looked up to see Gandalf. "Bilbo," he said softly. "The Dwarves have been missing you. Do not tell me you have been here for most of the afternoon!"

Bilbo shrugged. "Not for too long," he replied. "I was talking to Bard, but he had to deal with one of his men when the man's brother died." He got to his feet, wincing at the pull on sore muscles. "I feel rather useless at the moment, to tell the truth. What are we waiting for?"

Gandalf let out a huff as he and Bilbo began to walk back to the Dwarven camp. "Some of the elves to return, I suppose," he replied. "Thranduil will not go anywhere until Legolas has returned, that I know. And then we must hold the funerals for Thorin and Fili and Kili."

Bilbo bowed his head, his jaw clenching. "So Legolas is the Elvenking's son," he said, desperately trying to change topic. "He does not appear as a Prince, does he?"

"He does not like to," Gandalf replied. He'd noticed Bilbo avoiding the sore subject of Thorin, but said nothing. The hobbit could deal with his grief in his own way. "He has never loved his status much, which is why he never says anything or insists on his proper title. He cannot avoid being called Lord, for the most part, but all of his archers and many more besides know better than to call him Prince." Bilbo frowned, confused, and Gandalf elaborated. "Remember that elves are immortal unless slain," he continued. "Legolas is very unlikely to ever become King, and he does not want to. He much prefers to be a captain and nothing more."

"He's kind," Bilbo commented softly. "Completely unlike any of the elves in Rivendell that I met."

Gandalf barked a short laugh, a strange sound in the midst of the camp. "He is a lot younger than most of the elves in Rivendell," he replied. "But yes, he is kind, kinder than he perhaps should be given the state of his home and his prowess as a warrior." From the tone of his voice, Bilbo couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.

Gandalf sighed, his mind flitting through the many times he had been to the Woodland Realm. It was easy enough for the elves to become cynical and mean in a world full of shadow, especially when the world insisted on throwing that shadow at them relentlessly. To be kind, for Legolas to remain who he was and not waver, was much more difficult. Perhaps it would end badly, as the cynicism was a protection as much as anything else. But perhaps it would be his saving grace, in the end.

Beside him Bilbo also seemed to be wandering through his own thoughts, and Gandalf broke from his to look down at the hobbit. He hoped that Bilbo would find the same strength, especially given what he suspected he carried in his pocket.

"Thranduil has a lot of respect for you, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf said, searching for a new subject. "You will undoubtedly be welcome in his halls, whenever you wish. The same will go for Rivendell, that I can be sure of."

"Really?" asked Bilbo, curiosity kindling in him at the thought. But it soon was banked once again, and he shook his head. "At the moment, I would just like to go home," he said. "And I am not overly fond of revisiting those woods." He shuddered. "Unless they somehow get rid of all the spiders."

Gandalf laughed softly, shaking his head to himself. "Unlikely," he replied. "They're very difficult things to remove. But there are parts of their realm untouched, for the most part, by darkness. Go far enough into the midst of the realm, the woods north of the stronghold where the strength of the elves is greatest, and it is like Greenwood exists once more."

"Greenwood?" Bilbo asked.

"I forget you don't actually know much beyond your Shire, sometimes," Gandalf said gruffly. "Greenwood is the name that Mirkwood once bore. Greenwood the Great, before it fell under darkness and the wood elves were pushed back to the north."

"Will you tell me more?" Bilbo asked. Legolas had told him, as had the other captains, many stories that night around the fire, but Bilbo only realised now that he'd talked mainly of his history and that of the elves, the First Age and the realms that had existed then. Tales of their own realm, other than small idle talk, had been few and far between.

Gandalf glanced down at him, raising one eyebrow, and Bilbo held his gaze. "I want to know more," he said.

"More of what?" asked Gandalf.

The Tookish part of Bilbo, the one that had made him run out of his door without a handkerchief what seemed like a lifetime ago, had been dampened recently by worry and grief, and images of blood and steel and the sound of dying that had stolen into his mind and settled. But now it woke once more, raising its head and pushing back the images into dreams and not the waking day. Curiosity sparked once more and began to burn in their place.

Gandalf nudged Bilbo, and he realised he hadn't said anything in reply. "More of what?" Gandalf asked again, and Bilbo thought he could hear some kind of relief in his voice.

"Everything," Bilbo replied. "As much as I can know."

0-o-0-o-0

Belhadron held up one hand, blocking the glare of the sun as it began to sink in the west. Below him he could see across much of the plains surrounding Erebor, the endless grey stone and frozen soil that continued on for what seemed like countless leagues. Even his eyesight was not good enough to make out much more than the dark green smear across the horizon that was home.

His gaze didn't linger there for more than a moment, though, and he shifted again, remaining as hidden as he could whilst trying to watch the party of orcs that they'd been chasing for the past two days. One of Rhavaniel's scouts was to one side of him.

"Are they…" Belhadron winced as his hand shifted and sunlight glared across his eyes, and then nodded as he confirmed what they had been watching for. "They're stopping. Thank you Varda."

"I don't think she has much to do with this," the scout murmured with a wry grin. "I would rather thank that stream that crossed their path. They've been moving non-stop for almost two days now. They'll have to take at least a few minutes now." She glanced behind her. They were lying on the edge of a slight rise, the stream less than a league below them. Behind them the rest of the sixty elves were taking a few minutes to rest and check their weapons before moving in.

They watched for a few more moments, until the orcs began to cast themselves down on the ground and they were sure they had stopped for the time being, and then skidded back down the slope to the others. Legolas met them at the bottom, quiver slung over one shoulder from where he had been checking the arrows he'd part scavenged from the battlefield and part picked up from the camp after the battle.

"Have we got an opening?" he asked. Belhadron nodded.

"It looks like they're settling down by the stream," he replied. "We've been on their tail for two days without stopping, and they were going to have to stop sooner or later."

"We've got an advantage in that the stream's created a natural hollow, of sorts," said the scout. "We can get closer than I was expecting, given all this accursed bare land around us." She looked back over her shoulder. "Do you want us scouting ahead?"

"Yes, but not too far," Legolas replied, and he turned to get the rest of Rhavaniel's scouts that he had with him. In soft voices they began to put together a plan. After only a few minutes Legolas nodded, satisfied, and the small group split apart, the scouts spreading the plan amongst the rest of the elves.

"You ready?" Legolas asked Belhadron softly. Belhadron grinned wryly.

"Do you even have to ask?" Legolas huffed a brief laugh, but it was short lived and soon his gaze went west once more. "Last battle," Belhadron said, watching him. "We're nearly done."

"Nearly done isn't the same as done," Legolas replied. He swung his quiver up and slipped his other arm through the strap. Without saying anything Belhadron stepped forwards and did up the buckle across Legolas' chest, tugging on the leather to make the quiver sit properly. "You know better than to think like that."

Belhadron smiled crookedly. "It's been a long few days," was all that he said as he checked his own quiver and adjusted his sword belt once again. Exhaustion had not yet reached them, and would not do so for another day at the least, but tiredness was beginning to creep in at the edges of their minds. They hadn't stopped moving for more than an hour since they'd left Erebor.

Legolas called for them to move out, and within a few minutes it was as if the elves have never been there. With their grey cloaks they were wraiths moving across bare rock, barely visible to even the birds high above.

They fell upon the orcs, blades in hands and the singing of elven bows in the air. The orcs, though tired, snatched up their swords and fought back viciously. It was not a case of whether they could flee once more, whether they would survive. It was now merely how many elves they could hurt before they themselves were cut down amongst the bare rocks, and they were all the more reckless because of it.

Legolas nearly skidded down the gentle slope as he led part of the company into the orcs, jumping over the stream and instantly ducking under a desperate blow. His long knife in his hand, the other lost somewhere outside Erebor, he brought his arm up and slashed at the orc, which crumpled in a heap at his feet.

Belhadron was somewhere to his left, at the head of the other half of the company. The elves quickly encircled the orcs, pushing them together and picking off one orc after another from the edges. Arrows flew through the air from elves stationed back and above from the melee, and orcs dropped dead before they even knew there were arrows aimed at them.

Legolas parried another blow and twisted his wrist, his knife sliding along the orc's blade. The orc brought his other hand round in a wide blow, fist clenched. Legolas twisted his body and the hand scraped past his armour. In the next moment, he pulled his knife back and brought it down, the sharp steel biting into the flesh of the orc's arm.

The orc howled in pain and rage and tried to spin away, pawing at Legolas in an attempt to grab him. Legolas darted back, pulling his knife away, and the orc only managed to land a glancing blow that the armour protected him from. Legolas ducked another swipe and then slashed out with his knife. The orc fell, a puppet cut from its strings.

The skirmish wore on and the number of orcs quickly fell, more and more falling to the bright blades and anger of the elves. Legolas saw Belhadron, sword in hand on the other side of the orcs, but then lost him again in the ebb and flow of the fighting. There were not enough elves for Belhadron to have his usual place at Legolas' side unless they were to risk endangering others, something neither of them would ever do. A few of his archers fought beside Legolas for a while, before they were pulled off in other directions and two of Rhavaniel's scouts ended up nearby.

The sky was just beginning to turn dark, orange fingers reaching out from the dying sun, when the final orc fell with an arrow in its throat. Legolas lowered his knife, nodding his thanks to the archer above who had loosed the arrow, before looking around and beginning to take in the damage done to his company.

It seemed minimal. There was a reason all of the elves with him were considered the elite, and though the orcs had outnumbered them they had centuries of skill, not to mention endurance, on their side. Some elves were picking themselves up off the ground, and it looked like a few were unconscious, but there was no panic over deep wounds or the weight that sunk through the air when someone died. Legolas allowed himself to breathe a slight sigh of relief.

A voice cut through the cooling dusk air.

"Legolas!"

Legolas spun on one heel to see one of his archers crouched over a prone body. Her face wasn't particularly panicked, but it wasn't without worry either. Legolas cursed under his breath and ran over, picking his way through the bodies of the orcs littered across the ground.

It wasn't until he got closer, only yards away, that he recognised the armour and sword that his archer had picked up, and the breath stuttered in his throat. He sprinted the last few yards to the two of them, half formed words behind lips pressed tightly shut.

"What happened?" he managed to get out as he fell to his knees beside Belhadron. He was slumped on the ground, eyes tightly shut and blood coating one side of his face. Legolas winced and reached out for him, hands only steady through sheer determination.

"I saw him fighting not five minutes ago," the archer said as Legolas patted Belhadron down for other injuries, moving him so he was no longer crumpled on the ground. He briefly glanced up at his archer. "He can't have been down for long at all," she continued. "And it looks like it's just the head injury."

Legolas gently tilted Belhadron's head towards him, wincing again as he saw the gash. He ducked his head for a moment, resting his hand on Belhadron's pale cheek, before beginning to look at the wound. It was still bleeding sluggishly, and his archer pressed a cloth into his hand to stem the flow.

Legolas cursed under his breath as he pressed the cloth to the gash. "Is anyone else hurt?" he asked, briefly looking up and around before his attention turned back to Belhadron.

"Not that I can see," the archer replied. "A few may have taken minor wounds or-" She suddenly broke off as Belhadron seemed to begin to wake. Frowning, he sluggishly turned his head to one side with a muffled groan. Legolas rubbed at his chest.

"Belhadron?" he said softly. "Mellon-nin?"

Belhadron frowned again, tried to raise his head, and then seemed to lose the battle and subsided back into unconsciousness, going limp once more. Legolas uttered another curse. "Get everyone together," he said to his archer. "Anyone who is wounded or who wishes to, return to where we stashed our supplies. Everyone else needs to pile the orcs so we can burn the corpses."

"Of course," his archer replied, getting smoothly to her feet. "Do you need anything here?"

"I think he'll come round in a few minutes," Legolas replied, making an effort to smooth out his voice and hide the worry that was bubbling up, gripping his throat. "There's nothing much more you could do to help. My thanks, though."

She nodded, and then moved off. Legolas shifted so Belhadron's head was pillowed on his legs where he knelt on the cold ground. One hand, the one not holding the cloth to the gash in Belhadron's head, went up to his own cheek. The deep scrapes had been opened up again during the fight, and fresh blood was now drying down his cheek and throat.

He began to undo the straps across Belhadron's chest, pulling his quiver and bow out from underneath him and setting it to one side. Stray arrows spilt out across the ground. Legolas ignored them, checking the gash across Belhadron's temple before adjusting his armour, loosening off the metal plates across his shoulders and throat. Belhadron suddenly tensed beneath his hands and Legolas gently rubbed his chest again.

"Belhadron," he said once more, his voice soft. "If you can hear me, stop slacking off and wake up."

Belhadron frowned, and his head tilted to one side as he groaned. Legolas kept talking, not paying much attention to what he was saying, and slowly Belhadron seemed to come back into his self. His hand twitched and then slowly tried to reach up for the gash across his temple. Legolas caught it and pushed it back, holding onto his hand loosely.

"You've taken a hit to the head," he said. Belhadron went to reach for the wound again and Legolas pushed his hand back once more. "Stop it," he chided. "Leave it alone. It's not that bad, probably won't even need stitches even though it's bled a fair amount."

Belhadron groaned again. "Wha…what?" he mumbled. Legolas smiled softly in relief.

"You've taken a hit to the head," he repeated. "Are you with me?"

Belhadron screwed up his face, and then his eyes flickered open. He managed to focus on Legolas. "I was so close," he rasped. "So close. I could have come through…this entire thing…without getting hurt."

"And then an orc had to go and knock you out," Legolas replied, the corner of his mouth curling in a wry smile. "I know. How are you feeling?"

Belhadron blinked slowly. "How do you think?" he muttered in reply. He huffed a breathless laugh. "Not too bad. Maybe." He suddenly jerked, and made an effort to sit up. "The…orcs," he muttered, before his face drained of all colour and he fell back down, breathing harshly through clenched teeth.

"Easy," Legolas murmured, resting a hand on Belhadron's chest. "We're done. Nobody else looks badly hurt. All of the orcs are dead as well. We can head back to Erebor now."

Belhadron nodded slightly. "How far?" he asked softly. Legolas shrugged, making sure he didn't jolt Belhadron where his head was pillowed on his legs still. For the next few minutes he talked softly to him about the skirmish, what they were going to do next, letting Belhadron readjust and come around properly. For the most part Belhadron merely listened, trying to ignore the pounding pain in his head and the blood drying down his face.

After a few minutes Belhadron shifted, pushing himself up with one arm. Legolas moved back and put an arm around his shoulders as Belhadron struggled into a sitting position. Even that movement made him wince and he waited for the spinning to stop.

"All of our supplies are back where we stashed them," Legolas said. "Can you get up?"

Belhadron nodded, with a muffled groan as his head complained at the movement. "Sure," he muttered, but he didn't move. Legolas got to his feet and held out a hand. With one swift tug he pulled Belhadron up to his feet. Belhadron staggered, head spinning, and Legolas propped him up and stopped him from falling back to the cold ground.

Belhadron swallowed heavily as he leant on Legolas. "I might throw up on you," he warned, the corners of his lips curling in a grin. Legolas huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm around Belhadron's waist and pulling him upright.

"It really wouldn't be the first time," he replied. Belhadron grinned weakly, forcing himself to stand up straighter. Legolas called over one of his archers, giving them orders until Belhadron wavered and nearly fell against Legolas, the world spinning hazily around him.

They staggered back to where they had stashed their supplies, Belhadron gradually getting more control over his own legs until Legolas took his arm back and he walked on his own. He had Belhadron's quiver and bow over his shoulder, and his sword was in his own belt with his one long knife. It felt strange to be carrying the sword once more, the blade that had been his a long time ago before he had handed it over.

They reached where they had stashed their supplies and the light was quickly failing. Some elves had made it back before them and a fire was already going. A few were sat down around the fire with others tending to wounds, and Legolas pulled Belhadron over, ignoring his token protests.

"Sit down," he said, pushing at Belhadron. Belhadron glared, but slumped inelegantly to the ground with a wince, his hand going to his head. Legolas caught his arm. "Stop it," he said once again, a wry smile coming across his face. "You'll make it worse."

Someone passed him a bag and a waterskin, and Legolas pulled out a piece of cloth. Wetting it, he began to clean up the blood coating Belhadron's face. Belhadron went to push his hand away and he rolled his eyes. "Please stop it," he said. "You have dried blood all across your cheek."

"We match," Belhadron rasped with a grin. He reached out for Legolas' own cheek, the scrapes from the battle. "You need to be more careful."

"Says the elf with a gash across his temple," Legolas replied with an easy smile. He tilted Belhadron's head with one hand on his chin and began to clean up the wound. Belhadron huffed in annoyance, but stayed still. His eyes flickered to the east, but with his head pounding and the recent events, it was easy enough not to think of what they would face once they returned.

More elves returned to the makeshift camp as night fell, the later ones smelling of burning flesh and smoke. By the time the full company had returned, it was dark. A few fires were burning brightly and the elves drew around them, tending to any more serious wounds, of which there were few, and regaining some of their strength.

Belhadron, face now fairly clean of blood, was sat in front of one of the fires with one of Legolas' archers periodically checking he hadn't fallen asleep. Some of the elves were indeed asleep, curled up on their cloaks with weapons within reach. There would be no more skirmishes for them, though, or an ambush at night. The plume of smoke from the pile of burning orcs would scare any fleeing bands away.

Legolas moved around the makeshift camp, checking in with each elf as he did so. Nobody was hurt worse than Belhadron, and though they were tired, the sheer determination and grit that had made them all fight their ways into the elite companies was still there.

To every elf, he gave the same option. They had completed their orders, in that they'd brought down as many orcs possible in their given time, and now Legolas knew they were finished. They didn't have enough supplies to go further, having only travelled light and given the bulk of supplies to those companies going on longer, but slower, hunts. They could take the night and begin to return in the morning to Erebor, set off in an hour or so and get back quicker, or continue on to the edge of the lake and the people there.

The vast majority agreed with what Legolas himself wanted to do. They did not wish to linger for any longer, and now that their orders were complete thoughts were turning to what they had left behind at Erebor, the dead and wounded that they didn't yet know of. All of them were very accustomed to pushing themselves as far as they could if they had to. They just wanted to get back.

Legolas crouched down beside the fire. Belhadron glanced up. "I'm fine," he muttered. "Before you even ask."

"He keeps asking to sleep," said the archer sitting next to him, his voice amused. "Are we heading off soon?"

"An hour, maybe less," Legolas replied. He moved to be in front of Belhadron, tilting his head to one side to look at the gash. Belhadron half-heartedly waved his hand away with a muttered complaint. "Belhadron," Legolas chided. "Stop it."

"The gash hasn't changed since you last looked at it," Belhadron said, a rasp still in his voice. "I haven't passed out again, or thrown up since you tripped and nearly dropped me on the way back."

Legolas winced at the words. "I'm sorry for that, again," he replied. "But you had me worried for a bit. Indulge me." He held Belhadron's gaze steadily, and it was only because Belhadron had known him for so long that he could read anything in the look.

Belhadron's face softened. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I can't remember how I was knocked out, but I'm pretty sure I didn't mean for it to happen." Legolas huffed a low laugh, ducking his head. His hand found Belhadron's face, and he rested it there for a moment, reassuring himself that his friend was indeed alive and mostly whole. Belhadron reached up and gently squeezed Legolas' arm.

"I'll be alright," he said, lips curling in a small smile. "I have a hard head."

Legolas laughed weakly. "Believe me, I know," he replied. He sat back. "We're heading out soon enough. We have enough food for another day or so, and then we'll be out, but it'll only be a day out from the camp anyway."

"We've gone with a lot worse," Belhadron said. "We all have. We'll be fine." He levelled a glare at Legolas, who grinned slightly in return, and Belhadron knew he'd made his point. He settled back to watch the small fire dance in front of him, chewing on a piece of lembas. Legolas shifted to sit to one side of him and for a few minutes, maybe more, it was quiet.

Eventually, though, they packed up and left, once again no trace that they were there apart from the cold ashes of their small fires, and the plume of smoke from the burning corpses of the orcs. It was dark, but that was no hindrance to an elf, and they ran unseen through the night, east towards Erebor.

Poor Belhadron. I am worrying (probably needlessly) about the fact that I've said there's plenty of angst/emotional schmoop ahead because I don't want anyone going into next chapter expecting there to be people nearly dying and heartfelt confessions and everything, because I didn't take it that far. Basically, Legolas and Belhadron and the company don't stop on the way back to Erebor, at all, and are exhausted to the point of near collapse when they return. So there's emotional schmoop around Thranduil worrying over Legolas and the two of them exhausted and whatnot, but it's not like Legolas is really badly hurt or anything. So I don't want to disappoint anyone with what comes next chapter, I really don't. And so now I'm worrying over it a bit, but I don't have the time to rewrite anything to make it super angsty by Saturday.

Writing is really, really hard.

Anyway, I'll see you all again on Saturday. As always, reviews are very welcome.