AUTHOR NOTES: It took a ridiculously long time to update this baby. I've
been focusing most of my attention on 'Leaf Storm' (my Legolas/Eowyn fic),
especially since more and more people have taken an interest in it after
having seen TTT. Bless them, little moviegoers. This story is nearly
complete, I suppose. I'm thinking of adding two more chapters, and then
maybe two more at the beginning. Or not. Tell me what you think. I went a
little gore-crazy. Wahoo!
Chapter V - The Battle of Five Armies
Bard had never discussed philosophy with an Elf-prince before that uneasy evening before the confontation. They had unsuccessfully parlayed with the Dwarves twice. Armies were mustering at Esgaroth. Elves went on trips to and from Mirkwood, returning with weapons that looked more ancient than the hills themselves, yet still lethal and strong. And he, Bard, was trying to distract himself. He was, shamefully, afraid. Not for himself so much-he feared for the outcome of his little town. He feared for the lives that must be lost.
Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, was in a bitter quarrel with his father. *Not the first, I'd wager,* Bard thought. And, of course, he was young. The youngest. His fear was vague-a whisper, a pale shadow cast at dawn-but it was real as well. They had found each other hours ago, and now the conversation by firelight, alone in an Elvish pavilion, was becoming even more interesting. It seemed they had spanned all of Middle-earth's history in their talk. Now the conversation was reaching new climaxes
"You were the ones to accept our superiority: we did not make that rule. Such laws are beyond our concern, or even or philosophies. I truly do *not* think that Elves are more superior to Men, yet I also do not think Men are more superior to Elves. That is all."
"Yet you believe Elves-and Men-are more superior to Dwarves?"
Legolas paused, as though searching Bard's eyes for the answer to his own question. "Yes," he answered steadily. "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
Legolas smiled wryly and closed his eyes, tilting his dark head back as he mused on his own prejudices. "They do not have the grace to be content with the world about them. So they dig, deep down, always tunneling into the deep parts of the earth, giving nothing back for all they upset. They search and search until they find a gem or a gold vein-a glimmer to catch their eye."
"Do not the Elves gaze often at the stars of night?"
Legolas opened his eyes and smiled gently. "Indeed, we do, but we do not feel the need to seek out *those* gems. We are content to only gaze upon them. Time cannot cause their gleam to fade."
"One may be thus content, when one has eternity to gaze."
There was a cold silence. Bard had the sinking feeling that he had just offended the Elven-Prince, but he did not regret it. For the little he knew of Elves, he had always thought them to be just in all their actions. But here was blind discrimination-the mark of a simple people-of Men! But Legolas was young: they had said to him, too, the youngest. The Man looked at the youthful Elf's face and felt some guilt for his words, for in that expression was genuine sadness and a longing that, he knew, would never be fulfilled.
"You have a just argument," Legolas said in an even tone. "Eternity is eternity." And swiftly he cast shining eyes upon the Man at his side and spoke with greater passion than Bard had ever heard. "Yet do not tell me that, although Mortal Men will never see it, they do not *feel* it. You can grasp eternity, in a fleeting form. I have seen it in your people."
"You do a great service to Men, that you compare them to the Rangers. We are not all like them." Bard remembered when, ten years ago, he had seen this same Elf among the gray-cloaked wanderers who had come to trade. He had seen the Elven eyes light up with wonder.
"I have seen and been amongst more types of Men than the Dunedain alone, Lord Bard. That you should have guessed based upon my father's anger."
"Indeed?" Bard raised a skeptic's brow.
"The Man, Brago, who works in the tavern: do you know him?" Legolas spoke with sudden urgency, his hands making quick movements.
"Not well, but enough to say hello."
"He is not of the Dunedain, yet *there* is a Man who is noble and goodhearted, and who seeks peace and loves his life, his kin, and all Good People. That, my friend, is Eternity. *That* is seizing the infinite."
Bard stared in disbelief at the beautiful, starlit face before him. He seemed so young, this prince. He could pass for a lad of no more than twenty among humans-not that any Elf could every pass as a mortal. Yet these words-they came up from the earth, down from the sky-he spoke with a voice that was eerie and true. Bard sighed and nodded, dumbfounded by the intensity of the moment.
"I must to my father now, Lord Bard. May we fight together tomorrow- if it comes to that."
"If it comes, we shall. Side by side, brothers in arms."
Destiny, as usual, had other plans. They never fought together, for battle sundered them: and the battle that ensued was something neither of them could have dreamt of. Terror came thundering down from the Misty Mountains, riding on the backs of Wargs.
* * *
Drumbeats-the Men of Laketown mustered together, armed with limping Men and skinny boys unsteadily clutching swords. Injuries from Smaug's assault were set aside. Grievances over previous loss of life were ignored. They found a now focal point. They linked themselves with the Elven and Dwarven hosts and prayed for the best. Young and old gazed up in fear as Wargriders flew down the mountain slopes, howling at the gray sky.
The Elves were tall and steely-eyed, grasping the long handles of leaf-green banners, their coats of mail slightly tarnished by age, yet still brilliant as the pale stars of sunset.
There wasn't much noise in those last seconds before the battle struck-the war whoops of the goblins were far off yet. The three allied armies stood together, silent, quivering, and then the sky split with war.
* * *
"Where is my son?" Thranduil rose up, his arms tense, his eyes suddenly wild with fear. "Where is Legolas?" These eyes scanned the fray with fierce intensity. "I did not give him leave to go. Where has he gone?"
Gelmir came to the Elven-King's side swiftly, and after a curt and somewhat meek nod he said, "I saw him depart with Arion and the archers of the first volley. He wished to lend his skill to the legion."
Thranduil reeled on Gelmir. "You saw this? You spoke not of it to me?"
The Elf-Captain stammered, "I-I did not think it wrong, my Lord. The Prince is an archer of formid-"
"My son has never been in battle before!" And then Thranduil turned to his War Marshal, Atavodain, and said, almost shouting, "Order a retreat immediately. I do not care what it takes. Retreat back to the cliff face *now*."
"But my Lord, the goblins have the upper hand. If we pull back now, the casualties-"
"Do as I say!" Thranduil yelled. His heart was thundering in his chest, his mind flying back to events that suddenly seemed but recently-the day when his queen had been taken from him, then further back-a day when he had stood on the battlefield and watched, helplessly, as a black-feathered Mordor arrow slammed into his father's throat.
* * *
"Legolas!" Arion called, his voice carrying over the screams and bellows of the mountain goblins. "They're calling a retreat!" But then Arion's eyes snapped wide with fear. Legolas could not hear him. Legolas could not move. He was surrounded on all sides by goblins wielding jagged blades. Arion saw the lightning-quick flashes of the Prince's white knives, he saw a few goblins fall, he saw black blood flying up-yet it was clear that Legolas was fiercely outnumbered. The goblins knew it too.
As if following some silent agreement, the circle of goblins let out a crackling howl and converged at once. They seized Legolas' arms and wrenched the knife from his left hand. His right hand he kept locked in a vice-like grip around the hilt, kicking and clawing at anything that came within his reach, bringing his one weapon up and down into anything soft. Then there was the white-hot agony of blade against skin as a goblin dagger was slashed across his right wrist. The knife clattered to the ground, slick with its master's blood.
He gasped in anguish as evil hands grabbed onto his limbs and forced down. The bleeding hand he freed for a moment: it shot up toward the sky, a silhouetted beacon, touching the clean air for a last instant. Then he hit the earth hard, struggled briefly, and fell still again when a metal-plated foot careened with his temple. Blackness. And then light, painful light, blinding, burning. Where was Arion? Where was his father? Hadn't anyone seen him go under? It was like drowning. He tasted his own blood in his mouth, metallic and slick. He felt his skin break under claw-like goblin fingers. He heard the hoots and hollers of triumph.
*They will mourn me, this, a trophy for the mountain goblins, a feast to be eaten whilst still warm. What will my father say?*
He stared up, eyes blank, goblin faces grinning and cackling above him. Yet beyond them he saw the pale glow of the sky, gray and lovely. He would die by daylight.
One took his hair in its fist and yanked him upward. He fell forward onto all fours like an injured wolf, his body in shock, gasping, convulsing in pain. He could not bring himself to look at the ragged, bloody mess that was his right wrist.
Another yank up: he was on his knees, his head snapped back in a goblin's hand, blinking up at the sky. He realized, strangely, that the world was not silent. The din of battle had not lessened. He now heard new sounds in the noise: there were Elvish cries laced in the screams. His people were dying. Elf-blood was soaking into the earth, Elf-blood was reddening the mountain streams, Elf-blood was slicking the rocky terrain.
They laughed in their coarse language, the cruel, wild-eyed goblins, and then the one holding the back of his neck growled deep in the back of its throat. Something moved in the corner of Legolas' eye-a scimitar being raised. There was a cool feeling on his neck-the blade was rested on his jugular vein.
He stared up in disbelief at his executioner who stared back with an unreadable expression-primeval, yet not entirely remorseless. Elf and Orc were one in that instant. *And in the next instant,* he said silently, *the blade will slide across my neck and it will be over. Then I'll be dead.* The goblin seemed to nod in agreement.
The air whistled and suddenly an arrow was embedded in the goblin's chest. It made a gurgling sound and fell back, its fallen scimitar barely missing the tender flesh of Legolas' neck. He was free! The sky was thick with Elven arrows. He rose up cautiously, dazed and trembling with fear, and saw through the crowd-Arion.
"Legolas!" his friend called, lowering his bow, elated. Legolas sprinted to him, gasping for air, staring unbelieving at his friend's face.
"They-I didn't realize-"
"This is your first battle, Legolas. You have done well. It is not wrong to rely on the aid of your friends and allies. Now come. We have been ordered to retreat." Arion gazed up the cliff face to the promontory where King Thranduil and his war captains were gathered. "I'm going back to get the rest of the first volley."
"I'll come with you."
"No. Not after what just happened. I'll see you up at the promontory."
Legolas caught the fabric of Arion's tunic and looked him in the eye. "Do you swear?"
Arion smiled. "Yes. Now go." Arion glanced up. "There! Follow Silindë. He's got a clear path to the top. And get that fixed." He nodded at Legolas' wrist. "I'll see you in a moment." Then Arion turned and plunged back into the fray.
For a moment Legolas stood there, his mouth not quite closed, watching as Arion disappeared into the sea of warriors. Then he blinked away his anxiety, trusting to his friend's abilities, and began to scale the cliff. He made it only a quarter of the way up when something inside of him snapped. Coldness overtook him. Many years later, he was never able to name the sense that had made him pause. He stopped dead still and whipped his head around.
"Arion!"
Legolas saw the orc. Arion did not. His back was turned-he was lifting something with another Elf-an injured warrior with a mangled leg-a human warrior. He was distracted. He did not see the goblin looming up behind him. He did not notice the shadow cast by its raised scimitar. He did not hear the prince cry. His voice was lost to the wind.
Legolas was running. He was leaping over stones and fallen bodies, goblins, Men, Dwarves, Elves-he was flying. The wind rushed by his ears as he ran, heady with the scent of blood. Closer-so close! He had never sprinted so fast in his life. The air in his lungs was fire. But then maybe- just maybe-he could find his voice to scream.
"Arion!"
And his friend turned and looked at him quizzically, not more than six feet away, then closer still in the last moment. Time passed just enough to take in a breath. In the next moment the scimitar came down and Legolas' face was sprayed with Arion's blood.
The world stopped.
Arion's eyes were confused-lost. Disoriented. Not in pain, not afraid, just-lost. There was a sickening crack as the goblin wrenched its weapon out of the back of Arion's skull. He fell forward, onto his knees, kneeling before his prince, aghast at the tableau of his own swift death.
Legolas stood rooted in horror, unable to breathe. And then his legs gave way and with a wretched sob he caught his friend's shoulders and cradled his bleeding form. Gently, ever so gently, he turned Arion's face to see-to see-
The eyes were open-but he was gone.
Legolas doubled over and broke down. He did not care who saw. He did not care that he was weaponless, distracted and vulnerable. He did not care whether they won or lost this battle. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted silence. He wanted movement Arion's veins. He wanted to give in to the gnawing ache that had started in his heart-the thing the elders called Fading, the one thing, besides slaying, that might kill an Elf. *Take me with you. Take me with you.*
"Prince Legolas!" Silindë's voice broke. "Ar-Arion.." the rushed intake of breath, collection, self-calming, "My prince, come away-" The light touch of hands on his shoulders. "Prince Legolas, come away. He has departed."
Legolas knew this more truly than his cowering form may have admitted. Still, Silindë finally had to reach down and lift him up by the armpits. Then he fought.
"No," he gasped. He had no air to speak.
"Come away," Silindë pleaded. "You are not safe here!" Desperation. Compassion. Legolas was numb to these things. Silindë was gentle with him, folding his arms around his prince, softly pulling him from Arion. The dead Elf fell back, limp without Legolas' grasp. He would forever stare up at the grayness of the sky. It was a fate Legolas had glimpsed minutes before. Death under the gray, by dim daylight, beneath clouds, upon blood. Death was smeared over the valley. Death rained down from the sky.
"Your father," Silindë said, almost whispering. "Look, Prince Legolas!" He moved him a little to see. "See? He wants you at his side."
"I cannot go to him," Legolas said blankly.
Silindë felt himself becoming frantic. Arrows were flying. Most of the Elves had retreated back to the cliff face as they had been ordered. Soon they would be alone in a torrent of goblins speckled with Men and Dwarves like tiny archipelagos. Sooner than the prince thought, they might be joining Arion in Mandos.
*No*, Silindë said to himself with silent conviction. *No more death. Not today.* Half-leading, half-dragging, he took Legolas' arm and began to lead him away.
"I can walk," the prince whispered venomously after they'd gone three steps.
Silindë released his elbow. "Yes, my lord. Of course you can."
Legolas was staring at the ground. "Of course I can.." and he trailed off, gazing back at Arion's body which lay in a pool of blood that reflected the cloudy sky. "Of course." Light and darkness blurred. Pain and joy were one. Suddenly, Legolas couldn't take it anymore. He stopped and stared up the cliff face. He thought he could see his father-yes! There he was! Thranduil came to the front of the cliff, silver mail shining beneath the deep green of his cloak. Father and son locked eyes.
When he was very little, his father had told him: "Make eye contact with the enemy before the enemy strikes. Even if he prevails over you, you will have shown yourself. You will have kept your honor. No Elf dies a victim who hath looked Death in the eye."
But Arion had not. Legolas tore his eyes away from those of his father and king and looked back for what, he hoped, was the last time. And then he made eye contact with a goblin clad in crude armor, wielding a rusted bow.
For a split second his sight blackened out of agony. The shot was point-blank into his right shoulder: pure luck had saved him from being pierced in the heart or even his lung, as the orc was unskilled with its bow. Still, the force of the blow was so strong that Legolas felt himself thrown back. Someone cried out for him-he had not the voice to cry. Was it Silindë? Was it his father? He hit the cliff wall hard. His shoulder was aflame, a slicing pain, screaming with anguish. The arrowhead throbbed in his wound as its poison spread. He felt the hot outpouring of his blood down his side. Agony was blinding his sight, shocking his limbs into uselessness. In horror, he realized that he had been rendered completely vulnerable.
A blow ripped across his back, above his quiver. Suddenly his skin there was cold, hit by wind through his torn tunic-then more icy fire: a scimitar had sliced him from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Thus all the agony converged and he felt himself slipping away-
"Legolas!" Silindë, he thought. That must be Silindë. There was a clang of steel on steel as the Elf-warrior fended off the goblins that meant to take Legolas down.
*Silindë, Silindë, go on,* he thought. *This. Silindë .this is something greater than you and I, and it is calling to me. Go on.*
"Legolas, no!"
That was a voice deep and strong, a majestic tone tainted by-was it sadness? Despair. That was his father. *And you, Adar. You are strong and wise. Let the young and foolish pass. He will bring you no more grief by slipping away at night.*
"No!"
Pain, blood in his throat rising, and then, mercifully, silence.
-Fin-
Please review.
Chapter V - The Battle of Five Armies
Bard had never discussed philosophy with an Elf-prince before that uneasy evening before the confontation. They had unsuccessfully parlayed with the Dwarves twice. Armies were mustering at Esgaroth. Elves went on trips to and from Mirkwood, returning with weapons that looked more ancient than the hills themselves, yet still lethal and strong. And he, Bard, was trying to distract himself. He was, shamefully, afraid. Not for himself so much-he feared for the outcome of his little town. He feared for the lives that must be lost.
Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, was in a bitter quarrel with his father. *Not the first, I'd wager,* Bard thought. And, of course, he was young. The youngest. His fear was vague-a whisper, a pale shadow cast at dawn-but it was real as well. They had found each other hours ago, and now the conversation by firelight, alone in an Elvish pavilion, was becoming even more interesting. It seemed they had spanned all of Middle-earth's history in their talk. Now the conversation was reaching new climaxes
"You were the ones to accept our superiority: we did not make that rule. Such laws are beyond our concern, or even or philosophies. I truly do *not* think that Elves are more superior to Men, yet I also do not think Men are more superior to Elves. That is all."
"Yet you believe Elves-and Men-are more superior to Dwarves?"
Legolas paused, as though searching Bard's eyes for the answer to his own question. "Yes," he answered steadily. "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
Legolas smiled wryly and closed his eyes, tilting his dark head back as he mused on his own prejudices. "They do not have the grace to be content with the world about them. So they dig, deep down, always tunneling into the deep parts of the earth, giving nothing back for all they upset. They search and search until they find a gem or a gold vein-a glimmer to catch their eye."
"Do not the Elves gaze often at the stars of night?"
Legolas opened his eyes and smiled gently. "Indeed, we do, but we do not feel the need to seek out *those* gems. We are content to only gaze upon them. Time cannot cause their gleam to fade."
"One may be thus content, when one has eternity to gaze."
There was a cold silence. Bard had the sinking feeling that he had just offended the Elven-Prince, but he did not regret it. For the little he knew of Elves, he had always thought them to be just in all their actions. But here was blind discrimination-the mark of a simple people-of Men! But Legolas was young: they had said to him, too, the youngest. The Man looked at the youthful Elf's face and felt some guilt for his words, for in that expression was genuine sadness and a longing that, he knew, would never be fulfilled.
"You have a just argument," Legolas said in an even tone. "Eternity is eternity." And swiftly he cast shining eyes upon the Man at his side and spoke with greater passion than Bard had ever heard. "Yet do not tell me that, although Mortal Men will never see it, they do not *feel* it. You can grasp eternity, in a fleeting form. I have seen it in your people."
"You do a great service to Men, that you compare them to the Rangers. We are not all like them." Bard remembered when, ten years ago, he had seen this same Elf among the gray-cloaked wanderers who had come to trade. He had seen the Elven eyes light up with wonder.
"I have seen and been amongst more types of Men than the Dunedain alone, Lord Bard. That you should have guessed based upon my father's anger."
"Indeed?" Bard raised a skeptic's brow.
"The Man, Brago, who works in the tavern: do you know him?" Legolas spoke with sudden urgency, his hands making quick movements.
"Not well, but enough to say hello."
"He is not of the Dunedain, yet *there* is a Man who is noble and goodhearted, and who seeks peace and loves his life, his kin, and all Good People. That, my friend, is Eternity. *That* is seizing the infinite."
Bard stared in disbelief at the beautiful, starlit face before him. He seemed so young, this prince. He could pass for a lad of no more than twenty among humans-not that any Elf could every pass as a mortal. Yet these words-they came up from the earth, down from the sky-he spoke with a voice that was eerie and true. Bard sighed and nodded, dumbfounded by the intensity of the moment.
"I must to my father now, Lord Bard. May we fight together tomorrow- if it comes to that."
"If it comes, we shall. Side by side, brothers in arms."
Destiny, as usual, had other plans. They never fought together, for battle sundered them: and the battle that ensued was something neither of them could have dreamt of. Terror came thundering down from the Misty Mountains, riding on the backs of Wargs.
* * *
Drumbeats-the Men of Laketown mustered together, armed with limping Men and skinny boys unsteadily clutching swords. Injuries from Smaug's assault were set aside. Grievances over previous loss of life were ignored. They found a now focal point. They linked themselves with the Elven and Dwarven hosts and prayed for the best. Young and old gazed up in fear as Wargriders flew down the mountain slopes, howling at the gray sky.
The Elves were tall and steely-eyed, grasping the long handles of leaf-green banners, their coats of mail slightly tarnished by age, yet still brilliant as the pale stars of sunset.
There wasn't much noise in those last seconds before the battle struck-the war whoops of the goblins were far off yet. The three allied armies stood together, silent, quivering, and then the sky split with war.
* * *
"Where is my son?" Thranduil rose up, his arms tense, his eyes suddenly wild with fear. "Where is Legolas?" These eyes scanned the fray with fierce intensity. "I did not give him leave to go. Where has he gone?"
Gelmir came to the Elven-King's side swiftly, and after a curt and somewhat meek nod he said, "I saw him depart with Arion and the archers of the first volley. He wished to lend his skill to the legion."
Thranduil reeled on Gelmir. "You saw this? You spoke not of it to me?"
The Elf-Captain stammered, "I-I did not think it wrong, my Lord. The Prince is an archer of formid-"
"My son has never been in battle before!" And then Thranduil turned to his War Marshal, Atavodain, and said, almost shouting, "Order a retreat immediately. I do not care what it takes. Retreat back to the cliff face *now*."
"But my Lord, the goblins have the upper hand. If we pull back now, the casualties-"
"Do as I say!" Thranduil yelled. His heart was thundering in his chest, his mind flying back to events that suddenly seemed but recently-the day when his queen had been taken from him, then further back-a day when he had stood on the battlefield and watched, helplessly, as a black-feathered Mordor arrow slammed into his father's throat.
* * *
"Legolas!" Arion called, his voice carrying over the screams and bellows of the mountain goblins. "They're calling a retreat!" But then Arion's eyes snapped wide with fear. Legolas could not hear him. Legolas could not move. He was surrounded on all sides by goblins wielding jagged blades. Arion saw the lightning-quick flashes of the Prince's white knives, he saw a few goblins fall, he saw black blood flying up-yet it was clear that Legolas was fiercely outnumbered. The goblins knew it too.
As if following some silent agreement, the circle of goblins let out a crackling howl and converged at once. They seized Legolas' arms and wrenched the knife from his left hand. His right hand he kept locked in a vice-like grip around the hilt, kicking and clawing at anything that came within his reach, bringing his one weapon up and down into anything soft. Then there was the white-hot agony of blade against skin as a goblin dagger was slashed across his right wrist. The knife clattered to the ground, slick with its master's blood.
He gasped in anguish as evil hands grabbed onto his limbs and forced down. The bleeding hand he freed for a moment: it shot up toward the sky, a silhouetted beacon, touching the clean air for a last instant. Then he hit the earth hard, struggled briefly, and fell still again when a metal-plated foot careened with his temple. Blackness. And then light, painful light, blinding, burning. Where was Arion? Where was his father? Hadn't anyone seen him go under? It was like drowning. He tasted his own blood in his mouth, metallic and slick. He felt his skin break under claw-like goblin fingers. He heard the hoots and hollers of triumph.
*They will mourn me, this, a trophy for the mountain goblins, a feast to be eaten whilst still warm. What will my father say?*
He stared up, eyes blank, goblin faces grinning and cackling above him. Yet beyond them he saw the pale glow of the sky, gray and lovely. He would die by daylight.
One took his hair in its fist and yanked him upward. He fell forward onto all fours like an injured wolf, his body in shock, gasping, convulsing in pain. He could not bring himself to look at the ragged, bloody mess that was his right wrist.
Another yank up: he was on his knees, his head snapped back in a goblin's hand, blinking up at the sky. He realized, strangely, that the world was not silent. The din of battle had not lessened. He now heard new sounds in the noise: there were Elvish cries laced in the screams. His people were dying. Elf-blood was soaking into the earth, Elf-blood was reddening the mountain streams, Elf-blood was slicking the rocky terrain.
They laughed in their coarse language, the cruel, wild-eyed goblins, and then the one holding the back of his neck growled deep in the back of its throat. Something moved in the corner of Legolas' eye-a scimitar being raised. There was a cool feeling on his neck-the blade was rested on his jugular vein.
He stared up in disbelief at his executioner who stared back with an unreadable expression-primeval, yet not entirely remorseless. Elf and Orc were one in that instant. *And in the next instant,* he said silently, *the blade will slide across my neck and it will be over. Then I'll be dead.* The goblin seemed to nod in agreement.
The air whistled and suddenly an arrow was embedded in the goblin's chest. It made a gurgling sound and fell back, its fallen scimitar barely missing the tender flesh of Legolas' neck. He was free! The sky was thick with Elven arrows. He rose up cautiously, dazed and trembling with fear, and saw through the crowd-Arion.
"Legolas!" his friend called, lowering his bow, elated. Legolas sprinted to him, gasping for air, staring unbelieving at his friend's face.
"They-I didn't realize-"
"This is your first battle, Legolas. You have done well. It is not wrong to rely on the aid of your friends and allies. Now come. We have been ordered to retreat." Arion gazed up the cliff face to the promontory where King Thranduil and his war captains were gathered. "I'm going back to get the rest of the first volley."
"I'll come with you."
"No. Not after what just happened. I'll see you up at the promontory."
Legolas caught the fabric of Arion's tunic and looked him in the eye. "Do you swear?"
Arion smiled. "Yes. Now go." Arion glanced up. "There! Follow Silindë. He's got a clear path to the top. And get that fixed." He nodded at Legolas' wrist. "I'll see you in a moment." Then Arion turned and plunged back into the fray.
For a moment Legolas stood there, his mouth not quite closed, watching as Arion disappeared into the sea of warriors. Then he blinked away his anxiety, trusting to his friend's abilities, and began to scale the cliff. He made it only a quarter of the way up when something inside of him snapped. Coldness overtook him. Many years later, he was never able to name the sense that had made him pause. He stopped dead still and whipped his head around.
"Arion!"
Legolas saw the orc. Arion did not. His back was turned-he was lifting something with another Elf-an injured warrior with a mangled leg-a human warrior. He was distracted. He did not see the goblin looming up behind him. He did not notice the shadow cast by its raised scimitar. He did not hear the prince cry. His voice was lost to the wind.
Legolas was running. He was leaping over stones and fallen bodies, goblins, Men, Dwarves, Elves-he was flying. The wind rushed by his ears as he ran, heady with the scent of blood. Closer-so close! He had never sprinted so fast in his life. The air in his lungs was fire. But then maybe- just maybe-he could find his voice to scream.
"Arion!"
And his friend turned and looked at him quizzically, not more than six feet away, then closer still in the last moment. Time passed just enough to take in a breath. In the next moment the scimitar came down and Legolas' face was sprayed with Arion's blood.
The world stopped.
Arion's eyes were confused-lost. Disoriented. Not in pain, not afraid, just-lost. There was a sickening crack as the goblin wrenched its weapon out of the back of Arion's skull. He fell forward, onto his knees, kneeling before his prince, aghast at the tableau of his own swift death.
Legolas stood rooted in horror, unable to breathe. And then his legs gave way and with a wretched sob he caught his friend's shoulders and cradled his bleeding form. Gently, ever so gently, he turned Arion's face to see-to see-
The eyes were open-but he was gone.
Legolas doubled over and broke down. He did not care who saw. He did not care that he was weaponless, distracted and vulnerable. He did not care whether they won or lost this battle. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted silence. He wanted movement Arion's veins. He wanted to give in to the gnawing ache that had started in his heart-the thing the elders called Fading, the one thing, besides slaying, that might kill an Elf. *Take me with you. Take me with you.*
"Prince Legolas!" Silindë's voice broke. "Ar-Arion.." the rushed intake of breath, collection, self-calming, "My prince, come away-" The light touch of hands on his shoulders. "Prince Legolas, come away. He has departed."
Legolas knew this more truly than his cowering form may have admitted. Still, Silindë finally had to reach down and lift him up by the armpits. Then he fought.
"No," he gasped. He had no air to speak.
"Come away," Silindë pleaded. "You are not safe here!" Desperation. Compassion. Legolas was numb to these things. Silindë was gentle with him, folding his arms around his prince, softly pulling him from Arion. The dead Elf fell back, limp without Legolas' grasp. He would forever stare up at the grayness of the sky. It was a fate Legolas had glimpsed minutes before. Death under the gray, by dim daylight, beneath clouds, upon blood. Death was smeared over the valley. Death rained down from the sky.
"Your father," Silindë said, almost whispering. "Look, Prince Legolas!" He moved him a little to see. "See? He wants you at his side."
"I cannot go to him," Legolas said blankly.
Silindë felt himself becoming frantic. Arrows were flying. Most of the Elves had retreated back to the cliff face as they had been ordered. Soon they would be alone in a torrent of goblins speckled with Men and Dwarves like tiny archipelagos. Sooner than the prince thought, they might be joining Arion in Mandos.
*No*, Silindë said to himself with silent conviction. *No more death. Not today.* Half-leading, half-dragging, he took Legolas' arm and began to lead him away.
"I can walk," the prince whispered venomously after they'd gone three steps.
Silindë released his elbow. "Yes, my lord. Of course you can."
Legolas was staring at the ground. "Of course I can.." and he trailed off, gazing back at Arion's body which lay in a pool of blood that reflected the cloudy sky. "Of course." Light and darkness blurred. Pain and joy were one. Suddenly, Legolas couldn't take it anymore. He stopped and stared up the cliff face. He thought he could see his father-yes! There he was! Thranduil came to the front of the cliff, silver mail shining beneath the deep green of his cloak. Father and son locked eyes.
When he was very little, his father had told him: "Make eye contact with the enemy before the enemy strikes. Even if he prevails over you, you will have shown yourself. You will have kept your honor. No Elf dies a victim who hath looked Death in the eye."
But Arion had not. Legolas tore his eyes away from those of his father and king and looked back for what, he hoped, was the last time. And then he made eye contact with a goblin clad in crude armor, wielding a rusted bow.
For a split second his sight blackened out of agony. The shot was point-blank into his right shoulder: pure luck had saved him from being pierced in the heart or even his lung, as the orc was unskilled with its bow. Still, the force of the blow was so strong that Legolas felt himself thrown back. Someone cried out for him-he had not the voice to cry. Was it Silindë? Was it his father? He hit the cliff wall hard. His shoulder was aflame, a slicing pain, screaming with anguish. The arrowhead throbbed in his wound as its poison spread. He felt the hot outpouring of his blood down his side. Agony was blinding his sight, shocking his limbs into uselessness. In horror, he realized that he had been rendered completely vulnerable.
A blow ripped across his back, above his quiver. Suddenly his skin there was cold, hit by wind through his torn tunic-then more icy fire: a scimitar had sliced him from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Thus all the agony converged and he felt himself slipping away-
"Legolas!" Silindë, he thought. That must be Silindë. There was a clang of steel on steel as the Elf-warrior fended off the goblins that meant to take Legolas down.
*Silindë, Silindë, go on,* he thought. *This. Silindë .this is something greater than you and I, and it is calling to me. Go on.*
"Legolas, no!"
That was a voice deep and strong, a majestic tone tainted by-was it sadness? Despair. That was his father. *And you, Adar. You are strong and wise. Let the young and foolish pass. He will bring you no more grief by slipping away at night.*
"No!"
Pain, blood in his throat rising, and then, mercifully, silence.
-Fin-
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