The next few days were torture to Legolas.

The journey from the fields of Pelennor to the top of the White Tower had been bad but try as he might, he could not rid himself of those memories, so intense and visceral, so firmly entrenched in his mind. He tried not to think of her, hanging limp between him and that of Amathor, the leader of the Blue Company. Even now he could feel how she pressed against his neck and against his shoulder, unable to support herself even to stand. In his mind's eye all he could see was the wound in her side, deep and black with blood forming around like petals from some evil, nightmarish flower. The smell of it hung in his nostrils, the scent of blood fresh and dried alike, almost like a metal, the smell of a battlefield. Beneath that stench was the woman he loved, the woman whose life was slowly slipping away right before his eyes. Even the sound clung to him as surely as moss to a stone, the sound of her armour rattling with every rushed step, how faint and ragged her breath was, so soft as to be almost silent. Her screams however, they had been loud, and they had torn at his soul more deeply than any orc could have ever hoped to manage, than any sound he had ever heard.

In that moment, he was back at Amon Hen, where the last leaves of summer where in their full bloom, where the ground rustled gently with those that had already fallen, where the waters of the Anduin rippled softly against the banks before roaring into the great falls just beyond.

Where Boromir had fallen.

He could see the great Captain of Gondor now, lying against a mossy tree, surrounded by the Uruk-hai who had thought him weakened by the arrows they had shot him with. He could see his lips grow steadily bluer, his cheeks whiter with each slow and jagged breath. Even the grip on his sword that could have vexed a giant grew weaker and weaker until even a mouse could have knocked it from him. He saw Boromir the Tall slip as easily from this world as a leaf was carried away on the wind.

He had seen the same happening with Nemireth.

He could hear her breath catch in her throat, shallow and ragged. He could feel how cold her hand was even as he held tightly. He knew in the back of his mind it was a crushing grip but still he held on, as if even the slightest loosening would see her swept from him forever. She was holding back, he could feel it, but that grip was no stronger than that of a child.

So onwards they had run.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he fought it, all he could think was that she would die on his shoulder.

He thought back all those years. To her. He could still hear her anguished cries, her sobbing grief as she knelt upon that frigid mountain. Even now he could remember how he had reacted, with confusion and derision. Why did she weep so? Was she not aware of her own immortality? Did she not know the death she grieved was as inevitable as the changing seasons? It would come to them all eventually, dwarf and man alike.

Long had he been shamed by those thoughts; as he had watched her slowly languish, a light dimmed and never to be bright again. Even the Undying Lands, he was told, would not bring her peace. Still she had gone, for what else was there to do but remain here, trapped between desires and memories; longing for that which she could never have.

Only now did he understand her pain.

Only now, after so many years, did he truly see.

He could not lose her.

Not like this.

Word had gone ahead of them and it was Aragorn who stood before them as the doors opened. His sleeves were rolled back to his elbow with blood stains across his tunic yet it was his face that Legolas remembered. The sharp intake of breath that had greeted his first seeing of Nemireth, a brief glimmer of worry before he was directing them to a free bed, voice level and calm. Legolas knew the same fear coursed through Aragorn's veins as his own, he knew the Ranger -and now king, he had to remind himself- was thinking the same as he. What if she dies here? What if another of their company passed right before them?

Aragorn had done what he could, tending to her wounds so that at least there was no further bleeding, treating her with all the skill he possessed as both healer and king. After that, he said, it was in the hands of the Valar.

So Legolas sat with her. Aragorn visited when he could, but the halls were filled with the injured and he was needed constantly elsewhere. It was doubly so when the doors were thrown open again and a booming voice filled the room.
"Lad? Where are you, Lad? We found him!"

Slung across his shoulders was a small figure in the armour of Rohan, with a ghostly Pippin close behind. Another bed was found, and Aragorn tended another patient with all the care, dedication, and skill he could muster, just as he had for all those he had seen. The man was exhausted, but still he kept going. Only here and there did Legolas catch his friend and companion slumped in a chair, grabbing what sleep he could before another casualty was brought from the battlefield or one of those within required his attention.

Legolas could not sleep, however. Often had he thought it a blessing, being able to sit and watch as the sun fell away from the world only to rise again with the same vigour, bathing the world in dark and orange glows. There was nothing soothing about this. Indeed, though it was only days, he could have been sitting there for centuries. All the while he watched her.

He was not the only one to do so. Amathor had ridden from Edoras with the army of Rohan. He had been amongst the first to change into the ranks of the orcs outside the walls of Minas Tirith. He had carried the banner of Aeanor as those same horses charged head-on into the ranks of oliphant and the chaos that had ensued. If any man had earned a rest in the aftermath of their victory it was he and his men but no, they stood watch, slumped in chairs or leaning against any spare wall that could be found. No matter how often they were asked, no matter how many times they were told, the Blue Company would not leave their Princess.

The most senior captain of her company visited frequently during this time. Karos had the look of a soldier; impossible to really describe but epitomised in this man, grey-haired and crinkle-eyed but upright and as strong as any man could be. He was ashen faced on each of his visits and it pained Legolas to see the hope fade from his eyes on each visit, as he convinced himself she would be awake only to find that there was no change. They shared little words but each time their eyes met and a nod would pass between them, and between him and Amathor. She was not alone. In that he could take some comfort, no matter how faint it was.

For so many days and nights she slept, never so much as stirring from her slumber. Her dented and scratched breastplate sat beside her bed, as did her shield and her sword. He could not look to them though as the breastplate still bore the puncture mark at its side, metal curving inwards where it had failed to protect its wearer. Still, she would want them to be near when she awoke, he knew it. Even after all this time resting, she was still pale, still clammy to the touch even as he held her hand day after day. He would wait. Even if she never woke up, even if he sat here until the ending of the world, he would wait.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the bed.

Legolas felt his heart jump a beat as he leant in, squeezing her hand as he saw her eyes flicker. He was barely breathing himself.

She shifted under the blankets, her breath coming out as a sharp gasp through gritted teeth, her hand closed under his own, as if gripping for something.

"Be still," he spoke gently, rubbing the back of her palm with his thumb, "Just keep breathing."

She relaxed back, eyes still closed, and head tilted up to the ceiling, voice little above a whisper, "Merry…"

"Gimli and Pippin found him. He is being tended to and he will live."

"Thank the Winds," She pulled a face as she tried shifting her weight again, "Was I stabbed by a troll?"

"You may as well have been."

"I think Frodo handled it better."

"Frodo had mithril, you did not."

"It's only a minor difference really," She took a deep breath and at last opened her eyes, blinking rapidly in the light as she looked every which way, her breath still quick and shallow. He had thought he would never see those wonderful, expressive brown eyes again and it brought a wide smile, unbidden and immovable, "Where am I?"

"The Healing Halls of Minas Tirith," He was rubbing her hand now with his thumb, trying to assure her, "We only just got you here in time."

"'We?'" She laid eyes upon Amathor who had not moved from his spot, as if any sudden movement might harm her, "Amathor!" She tried to sit up only to give up with a single movement of her shoulders, slumping back in the bed.

"I said be still," Legolas sighed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her from trying again. Though she frowned at the gesture, there was no further attempt. She looked back to the Aeanorean instead and suddenly it struck Legolas just how tired she looked, biting her lip in concern.

"Amathor is…did everyone make it?"

"We did, your highness," He bowed his head, "Though the fight was hard."

"Thank you," She tilted her eyes to the ceiling, "Thank you."

Only then did her gaze fall upon him and linger. He made no attempt to speak, no effort to break the silence nor ruin that moment. He felt her hand shift so it was entwined in his and he held it back with that same smile.

"You look terrible."

He knew he did. His hair was still dirty and bedraggled from the battle, his clothes filthy from both the Paths of the Dead, the ships of the Corsairs and then the fight but his only reaction was a chuckle, "I feel you are not in a position to complain."

"I guess not," She smiled to him but the smile quickly faded and a look of grief crossed her face. It pained him to see, that anguish that ran too deep for any healer's hands, no matter how skilled, "Éowyn…"

"She too is here," Of course, she would not have known, how could she? "She too will live. Aragorn has tended to her as he has tended to you."

"Oh…" There was relief that washed over her, but the pain did not leave her eyes. Legolas felt his smile slip as she gripped his hand tighter, bottom lip quivering, "I thought…"

"I know," He squeezed back, running a thumb gently along her cheek, "I know. Just rest, Nemireth. She could not be in better hands."

Her strength was fading, he could see it in how slowly she blinked, how quiet her breath still was. The Princess was awake, but she was weak. "How have I been asleep?" She mumbled the words so that Amathor had to learn in. Legolas however, could hear her clear as day.

"A few days, how many for sure I cannot say."

"And you waited?"

"Rest Princess," He spoke gently, stroking at her cheek, "We will be here when you awake."

The corners of her mouth twitched but with a deep sigh, her eyes closed and her breathing became slow and shallow. Legolas leant back in his chair and looked to Amathor who torn between relief and concern. The elf felt exhaustion wash over him in a wave, but it could taint the joy, the relief.

She lived!


OOC: Another chapter from Legolas' perspective! I hope everyone had a happy and safe holidays :)
Thanks for all the reviews, likes and favs! I appreciate it so much!