Chapter 35

Legolas heaved a pained breath, watching through the crimson shroud that blurred his vision as Bolg prowled around him, his mace slung over his shoulder.

"Time to die, little prince."

Above their head, the ravens streaked across the leaden sky, fighting the storm as they surveyed the mountain slope for an upcoming feast.

"I am not done yet," he grunted as he pushed himself off his knee and wiped the blood off his brow. The surge of strength induced by battle was waning – the one that dulled the pain and sharpened the senses – leaving him drained. Under his armor Legolas trembled, his muscles taut with exhaustion.

Yet he could not abandon the fight; every second where he kept Bolg busy was one more chance for Nendir to save Naima.

Azog's son grinned, his seeing eye trained upon what he believed to be his prey, his raspy breath clouding the air. Unhurried, he readied his weapon, certain of his victory. "Not yet," he agreed, savoring the threat, "but soon."

"Later than you think!"

Legolas dodged the blow meant to finish him, crying out as the edge of the mace ripped through his sleeve, raining scales of steel upon the snow. He slipped under Bolg's guard and thrust his dagger upwards, into the orc's armpit, until the blade scraped against bone. Had he strength still, he would have thrust it further, into his cruel heart.

Bolg roared in agony as Legolas twisted the blade; yet he had grown slow, careless. Bolg pivoted, slamming his elbow into his nose with a sickening crunch.

Sky and snow blended into a white haze, as blinding as the fire that exploded inside his skull. Legolas flew backwards, landing heavily onto his side. A movement caught his eye; he rolled, out of sheer instinct rather than by choice, narrowly escaping evisceration. His broken ribs grated against one another like teeth chewing him up inside, and it took all his willpower not to scream.

Where was Nendir?

"You are growing weak," Legolas coughed as he struggled to his knees once more. The Mountain swam before his eyes. "You should leave while you still can."

Pain and despair threatened to drown him, the remaining dagger in his hand as heavy as an anvil. He had done all he could. His strength was all but spent, doubt gnawing at his resolve like a rat. Nendir had not yet returned, if he ever would.

With both his friend and his beloved gone, what was he still fighting for?

"Enough!" Pulling out the blade that still jutted from his armpit, Bolg hurled it away as a stream of black tainted his side. "I will kill you now, elf-scum."

Lifting his face towards him, Legolas clenched his fist upon the hilt of his dagger, determined not to give his enemy the pleasure of a surrender.

Bolg staggered, eyes widening in surprise as an arrow embedded itself into his back. He growled in fury and turned around, in time to receive another arrow into his chest.

"You talk too much," Nendir called out as he drew his bow once more.

Bolg roared and launched himself towards him, his mace raised above his head.

The last arrow whistled as it crossed the distance between them, finding its target in Bolg's throat. The orc stumbled and fell to his knees. Hissing as he stubbornly drew another breath, he reached out and ripped the arrow out by the shaft, uncaring of the damage.

"By Elbereth, die already," Nendir muttered, his face a mixture of awe and disgust.

He pulled out his sword and descended towards them in brisk strides. In one swift movement, he severed Bolg's head between his chin and the spiked pauldrons bolted to the flesh. The body of Azog's son slumped into a bloody heap while his face watched from aside, contorted in helpless rage, his greyish lips moving in a last – and silent – curse.

Only then did Legolas allow himself to falter. He sat back in the snow, shivering. "Where is Naima?"

"Safe. Though I would not it put past her to disregard my orders, and thus would recommend we hurry to join her." Nendir came to crouch beside him, and winced at the sight of the damage. "By the stars, Legolas, you look more dead than alive."

"I feel more dead than alive," Legolas confirmed, accepting his friend's extended hand. His body ached with every move, his limbs as weak as a newborn's, and yet he was smiling. Naima was waiting for him; she was safe, unharmed, and from now on, Legolas would see to it that she remained just thus.

It was then that a roar broke the silence of the fort, where none but the dead were supposed to dwell. Nendir uttered a curse as he looked up, the foulest of those Legolas had ever heard him use. He followed his friend's gaze.

Atop the frozen waterfall stood Orbog, proffering Naima's struggling form over the ledge like a trophy.

An otherworldly cold descended upon Legolas. The distant clash of battle dwindled away, replaced by the steady drumming of his own heart. His quiver was empty, and so was Nendir's.

There was nothing he could do.

Naima's gasp stung his ears; a pained, desperate rasp. She was running out of air…. To reach her in time would mean to outrun the wind itself while already his limbs quivered with fatigue, aching for a long-promised rest.

He could not reach her.

Shards of ice rained into the abyss as Orbog stumbled on the edge of the cliff. The dagger was heavy in Legolas' hand, as though welded into his palm. He forced his stiff fingers to unclench; whether his aim proved true or not, Naima would fall.

He could not save her.

A sharp cry echoed down the valley, and the storm swelled with the sound of a hundred wings.

"The eagles!" Nendir exclaimed, pointing towards the West, "the eagles have come! Gwaihir the Windlord has sent us aid!"

The same shout rose from the plain below as the eagles plunged towards the battlefield, scattering the orcish troops, sweeping enemies off their feet with a single beat of their wings. Terror woke in the hearts of Azog's armies; they turned and fled, flinging themselves against elven blades and dwarven axes alike.

Above the plain, Orbog watched their disarray, his face contorted in a grimace of hatred as Naima grasped at his armor, terrified of the abyss under her feet.

An eagle swept up the waterfall. It opened wide its wings and shrieked in challenge before veering off towards the battle. Orbog drew back in fear: one step, and then another…. Naima's boots brushed against the ice. She heaved a croaking breath as his grip on her throat faltered, and collapsed against him.

Legolas held his breath her weight brought them both to the ground. In his hand, the dagger grew warm and light, like a sparrow yearning to fly.

The half-orc was the first to rise; slowly, painfully, he stood and searched the ice for Naima, his vengeance yet incomplete. But this time, he was alone upon the ledge. Legolas moved, his arm extending in his will to accompany his blade towards its target. A crunch of steel, a grunt….

Orbog plummeted into the void, clutching the hilt that jutted from his chest.

oOoOoOo

Legolas found her where she had fallen, where the river bent to drop towards the valley below. Naima stood, shivering in her ragged clothing, her short hair dusted with grey by the cloying mists that had frozen there, her face turned towards the abyss.

Perhaps she tried to make sense of everything that had happened to her, and of the battle that was being won in the plain below, in the name of a cause she knew nothing about. Perhaps was she simply admiring the majestic flight of the eagles who soared in the skies above, marveling at the sight of Manwë's creatures that Legolas had not yet had the chance to tell her about.

Perhaps had he come too late to do so.

Naima wrapped her arms around her chest and turned to face him, causing Legolas to quiver in turn. Where not even the storm, which flailed them both mercilessly, had succeeded in piercing through his armor, she managed with but one look. The same determination that had glowed inside her the night she had left Mirkwood animated her now, and though her expression was guarded, her eyes gave her away: remorseful and already grieving.

"You're alive," Naima whispered, her gaze flitting towards him and then away, to her boots, to the cracks in the green-blue ice…to anywhere but his face. "It would've been easier if you hadn't come."

It dawned upon Legolas, then, that the moment he had been dreading had come, the time in between stolen from them by Azog's plans. Naima was leaving him, now and not a second later.

Shifting her weight from one foot to another, she glanced over her shoulder, to where the snow disappeared as the wind whipped it off the ledge, uneasy and afraid. There was more at the foot of the waterfall than Orbog's broken corpse, Legolas guessed, dreading what her intentions could be. Surely she did not mean to…?

He took a step towards her but Naima drew back, her lips trembling, and shook her head so violently that frost rained all around. His breath hitched in his throat at how close to the edge she'd come and, though to distance himself from her costed what strength he still possessed, Legolas stepped back again.

"Stay," he murmured instead over the lament of the wind. "Stay with me."

Tell her how you feel.

Nendir's advice was sound but it had come too late, and too late was Legolas in putting it to good use. He should have asked Naima to stay when she had first resolved to leave, and sacrifice her own safety for his sake and that of his people. He should have asked her to share his life when he had first realized he loved her, when his heart had first startled in his chest at the sound of her voice.

There was many a thing Legolas should have done, but now all he could do was hope…

"I can't." Before he could argue Naima shook her head again, tightening her grasp around her sides. "I mustn't." She nodded behind her, where Orbog now lay – dead – instead of Legolas himself.

…And beg, if he must; yet the words clung to his tongue as his pride rebelled at the thought. "Is there nothing for you here?" Legolas pleaded, wordlessly imploring her to acknowledge their bond. Could she truly ignore the call of her heart, or deny the craving for his touch? The way she had melted against him, when he had held her, back on the shore…. Legolas had not imagined it, but did Naima remember?

She looked into his eyes at last, begging not to be reminded about it. "This is not my place, and you know it," she answered instead.

"It could be, if you wished it so."

You have but to say it. All that I am, all that I have, is yours.

"I'm not sure how long I can survive here." Naima shivered once more, but not from cold. "I wasn't made for this world."

What was it she was not telling him? What new secret did she hide? Yet Legolas realized he was beyond caring for such things; the mere act of belonging to her, and her to him, would sate him for the lifetime to come. This time he would not fail to protect her, and strive to make her smile again. Autumn leaves and new horizons; whatever would cure her sadness, and make her forget she had once been alone.

As long as she stayed….

"Don't do this," he murmured, "don't go. please." Despite her skittishness he reached out a hand, prepared to endure the wind gnawing at his skin for as long as it took her to cover it with her own, and warm him inside forever. "Stay."

"You don't understand," Naima broke down as she wrung her scraped hands, watching him with both longing and fear. "If I stay…" she stuttered, "if I stay, I can't go back home, not before three more years."

Three years. A blink in the existence of an elf, a mere foretaste of a life together, but a taste Legolas dared not refuse. Better have it linger in his mouth then to never know how sweet it could have been, like the honeyed flavor of mead in the morning, as the head still rings with songs long since faded. Better to have heard them once than to imagine their beauty.

"One day, one month, one year…I shall be content with whatever you give me."

"But three years is an eternity! So much could happen…Azog, or his Master, could try to kill you once more…."

"Azog is dead," Legolas stated as ring of silver trumpets rolled over the battlefield, announcing the victory. "His army is undone, and his Master, if he indeed exists, must now find another hand to carry out his will."

"Really?" Naima bit her lip, yet for the first time she leaned away from the precipice, responding to his call. "You're not saying this just to convince me, are you?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

A timid yet hopeful smile blossomed on her lips as, at last, Naima reached out for him in return. "Then I guess…I guess I could stay."

oOoOoOo

Somewhere nearby….

His body was broken, his blood strewn all over rock and snow.

Orbog shuddered as he fought against the prison that his own flesh had become to draw one more torment-filled breath. He heaved against a weight that lay on his chest; his lungs expanded in a wave of searing pain, the shattered bones a barbed cage for him to die in.

The wench had lied to him, promising life, only to use and deceive him, just like Gorgash had done.

A warm liquid rose in his throat and bubbled from his nostrils. Orbog gurgled and quaked, condemned to drown in his own blood, neither able to turn his head nor spit it out.

Cursed be the women – those who had brought him into this world, and those who'd robbed him of it. His own mother had offered him a life of humiliation and servitude, while through her scheming and her lies, the young whore had caused his fall.

The cold seeped into his skin, prickling at first and then burning, before the numbness set in with its deceitful mercy. Every muscle buckled, uncaring for the grinding of bones and the mangling of flesh, as if their strength alone could ensure another breath. Unable to move, Orbog could do naught but endure as the storm feasted on his screams.

Darkness descended upon him as if the night was falling at last, as if he'd lain there fighting for the remainder of the day. All his life Orbog had battled for the scraps of others – just because his blood was only half-orcish, though his heart had been twice as brave. He'd never thought his death would be any different.

The insetting gloom quivered at the edges of his vision, as if crawling with creatures that waited to gorge themselves upon his corpse. Yet in the darkness shone a light: the device the wench had taunted him with, the one that would bring them back to her world. From the corner of his eye, Orbog saw its reflection in the elven dagger embedded in his chest – the last gift of an enemy.

The light crackled as it swelled; like a beast chewing on the bones of a prey, it grew in spurs, erratic and threatening. Orbog could do nothing but watch. Had the muscles required still been attached to his jaw, he would have laughed.

Gorgash had already paid for his treachery, but the wench was yet to get what she deserved. Orbog had promised her the same death as he, yet she'd somehow robbed him of his revenge. In the raging storm he heard her laughter, so akin to the keening of the gale.

Metal groaned as the light burst through the shell that sought to contain it. Orbog tasted cold iron on his exposed tongue, like the stale blood of those who would die alongside with him, yet who didn't yet know it.

May the Dark One find them in the afterlife.

The light shattered the darkness, searing its imprint into his brain.

May he avenge me.

When the blast scattered his body for the crows to find, Orbog felt no pain – he was already dead.

oOoOoOo

Atop Ravenhill….

The light flashed like lightening, closely followed by a whump more deafening than thunder. Legolas cried out, blinded and deafened for a heartbeat as the hill quaked beneath his feet and shook him from within. An ear-splitting crack raced up the cliff as the ice splintered under the blast, muffled through the wool that filled his ears.

Naima's eyes widened, her lips parted as meaning to warn him. She reached to grasp his hand; the tips of her fingers brushed against his…

…And then she was gone, dropping into the void as the waterfall collapsed under her feet, slabs of ice grinding against stone in a rumble that found echo into his very bones.

A muted shout, a jolt; Legolas reeled backwards as someone yanked him away from the fast-approaching edge, calling out his name, shaking him, calling, calling….

"Legolas!"

His ears rang, the warmth of his own blood scorching the skin of his neck where the wind had scratched it raw.

"Legolas!"

Tearing himself free from Nendir's embrace, he staggered towards the gaping chasm, lined by fangs of ice and heaving smoky breath that reeked of burning flesh. Below, where the precipice had claimed its due, lay a crater as wide as a dragon's maw, now sated with the flesh of his beloved.

Not even a body remained for Legolas to mourn.

Stunned he wandered, slighted and uncomprehending. What had they done, or not done, to deserve such sorrow? Was it because Naima was mortal and he was not that their love had been denied? Yet even Beren and Lúthien had been granted another life by the mercy of the Valar….Was it because Naima had been right about not belonging to this world?

Legolas looked at his hand, where the last touch of her small hand still lingered, infused with her last intention – to save him.

For the second time that day he raised his face towards the sky, unashamed to show his tears. Though the stars hid behind the clouds, he searched his heart for an answer, turning instead to Manwë, whose winds had accompanied Naima's fall, and to Vairë the Weaver. Was there truly a tapestry adorning Mandos' halls, made with care and skill, depicting their doom?

Lhaewen's words of caution came back to his mind. Your prayer was answered, and mine was not. Do not do this again. Do not risk such pain upon yourself. Only now did Legolas understand the cost she was speaking of – heartache and anger, and the nagging sense of incompleteness, to carry evermore like an unwilling companion.

No wonder Lhaewen had grown bitter, crumbling under the weight of such a toll.

An icy drop streaked down his cheek, and then another as the clouds burst, pouring out their hearts onto the wounded earth. The skies cried, and in the rain the answer appeared – not the one Legolas had hoped for, but one of pity, as Nienna herself wept for his loss.

The Valar had nothing to offer in return for his prayer, for there was nothing left to return.

Naima was gone.