.

.

.

Moving this disclaimer forward: slight POV change from Éomer to Aragorn in later chapters because I decided that I definitely wanted this to be a slash. So yeah if you don't like

Aragorn/Legolas then this is not the place for you (especially in the future, but the rating will stay T probably.) And if you have personal issues with LGBTQIA+ I don't really want to hear about it in my

messages or the reviews thank yew :]

If you do like it then this is absolutely the place for you and I hope you enjoy!

Also, thank you to all the people who have reviewed, I read them all and very much appreciate your thoughts! I hope you all have a wonderful day wherever you are in the world :]

Hope you enjoy reading!

.

.

.

.

.

.

Cold and unmoving was that morning, the sun almost struggling to pull herself up over the blood soaked valley. The lifeless silver armour of Rohan's soldiers caught the lavish rays like gold upon satin, and

the sky slowly drained away the ink of the ruinous night past. Alone, the feeble song of a flag flickering on the breeze, clinging to it's mast by a thread. It pained Éomer to walk upon that land. His legs were

too weak to make haste, so he took up long, lonely strides instead, and there was a deep thrumming of sorrow in his chest.

Wary was his footing as he trod around the dead; sunken faces with still orbs, and though these eyes shot no daggers, Éomer felt a stab of guilt, many stabs even. He had perilously studied the faces closer,

part of him seeking closure in their identification. There was the smith's son, lying more cold than the twelve winters of his life combined. Éomer pitied the one to bring the news of his death to his mother,

and pitied she herself more.

He could not help but feel responsible. His uncle had assured him it was a necessary sacrifice, but it was a fine line that he wished never to face in his life, even if he should become king one day. That was

what haunted him most. Perhaps haunting him more presently was the fear that his regretful walk would bear no fruit.

Worse still than the emotional ambush was physical pain, his open wounds and worn muscles screamed in protest against the scraping of leather and chainmail, and the smell of death he could not bear,

making sure his weighted breaths were drawn from his lips. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up, but it wouldn't get worse at least, that fact lifted him a little.

Éomer scanned the landscape for movement, even the spared life of a horse or bird would be welcome. It did not seem in his favour. Those who had survived had returned to the keep, but so few that he was

determined to scavenge, for lack of a better term.

Then, blessed his eyes were. There was a man out across the field, so transfixed that Éomer had almost missed him. Through streaks of blood and dirt, the horse-lord spied ivory hair, uniquely belonging to

his elven associate. He watched Legolas for a while as a sense of fulfilment blew over him. He was glad to find him alive and well- so he thought at least. Just as his anxiety settled, it started to creep up

again as he slowly approached the elf.

What was he doing? He had been kneeling for minutes now, utterly still. Perhaps it was the elven way of mourning? Was it best that Éomer leave him be? He was now close enough to Legolas to hear that he

was singing weakly. Though it was in elvish, the man could appreciate the beauty of the song and so his assumptions swayed towards it being a song of lament. He now feared that if he got any closer or else

drew attention to himself, it would be disrespectful. But the aimless debating in his mind was not getting Éomer anywhere, so he shortened the distance between the two in cautious installments. And he was

glad he did, something was amiss. Legolas' expression did not resemble that of a griever, but rather of bewilderment.

Before he had time to register the cause of the elf's daze, his attention was caught by the clatter of a white elven blade slipping from Legolas' hand. As his eyes returned to the elf's face, they were blessed

no longer. Foolish he had been, not noticing his companion's trouble sooner. His uneasiness had returned, and with energy he had no knowledge of, Éomer rushed to crouch before him. A spear had been

maliciously driven right through the elf's shoulder and firmly into the ground, holding him with no hope of escape. Legolas turned towards him slowly with glassy eyes, as if he were awakening from a dream.

'Bema! Legolas… what did you do to end up like that.'

His voice was unwillingly overflowed with pity, drowning out the concern. But sympathy would not help, it was just a good thing Legolas had not lost much blood. He had stopped singing and simply stared at

the man, his tilted head bearing a slight smile. Oh how this was affecting him mentally, Éomer thought. The poor elf was so confounded that he had no sense of the gravity of his situation. Shock perhaps, at

least there was hope it numbed his unimaginable pain- it plagued Éomer for a moment before he swept the negative thought away, shuddering.

'Send for Lord Aragorn!' He shouted at one of his distant men, hoping his voice carried far enough. The soldier scrambled away as Éomer turned back to Legolas, who surprisingly reached out a hand to touch

the human's face, brushing the graze on his temple with a thumb.

'You are injured.'

It stung immensely, but Éomer did not pull back, instead gently guiding the other's hand away, 'Speak for yourself.' He nodded towards his companion's shoulder, a bitter expression forming as he was

reminded of dread.

It was a curious thing to watch, the elf now becoming aware of his misfortune and staring blankly at the orc javelin. There was an unwelcome silence, and Éomer wished to break it but decided to give him a

moment, which did not result in what he had hoped for.

'Oh yes. I see there, it seems I have been… what is the word… skewered, yes.' He mused whimsically, still staring as if it were nothing but a mild inconvenience. In any other circumstance, Éomer would have

offered a laugh, but now his concern grew.

True, a mild inconvenience it might've been for the elf, being intangible to most dangers. He had slain the last of the Uruks with the blade that had vacated his grasp, which seemed an impossible feat whilst

being nailed to the ground. But that is what elves were, Éomer assured himself; impossible. There was another side to it though, just a passing notion. One who was usually so sure-footed and without fault.

Now, the Legolas knelt among corpses of men and orcs, desperately awaiting help for his life.

Irritably, help had decided to take it's time, but Éomer dismissed his frustration easily by glancing around; if these were the dead then the injured were also in the masses. He had to believe help would come

as swiftly as it could.

After what seemed like hours of pointless pining, the ranger drew near, a familiar red-haired dwarf huffing and puffing behind him. He grumbled to himself, suggesting that people should die and acquire

injuries where it convenienced him. Again, Éomer lost a smile that would be present anywhere else.

'In the name of all that is good-'

Aragorn stopped dead in his tracks and even Gimli took up a more serious stance, which was unusual when he was in the elf's presence. Legolas looked up and greeted them and spoke again with unnerving

calmness.

'I am stuck.'

'I- yes, we can see that lad!' Gimli spluttered, shaking his head in disapproval. The elf looked back down to his shoulder, as if to double check before he looked back up, his eyes sparking with light.

'Final count: forty-two. How do you fare?'

.

.

.

.

.

.