Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a warrior, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It won't evolve into romance, I promise that.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.
If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!
~*~*~*~*~
Nyatha shook off the dark with effort, straining to keep consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open to see an orc bending over her, a knife in its hand. Her sword lay under her, the hilt poking into her back, and, since it was unaccessible, she did the first thing she could think of. She kneed the orc between the legs, and when he fell back, gasping in the sudden pain, she rolled away, grabbed her sword, and ran him through.
She leapt up, and spun. She yanked the arrow out of her shoulder, oblivious to the pain as she assessed the situation. Legolas was fighting orcs with two glittering knives, keeping them from her. He saw she was awake, and left her side, ducking, weaving, slashing, and fighting in a graceful blur of movement. The minute he went, she saw Ifnakh—amazingly not yet dead, although he was peppered with arrows and knife slashes—run for her, crude iron sword in hand.
Nyatha pointed her sword at his eyes, and murmured, "Come…"
The orc lunged, and she parried, and lunged in return. Immediately she was swept into a deadly dance of parries, blows, thrusts, and lunges. A trance came over her, and everything was shaded out of her vision save for the orc and the blades. A reddish haze came over her vision, and time seemed to slow as she parried, lunged, dodged, ducked and jumped.
She analyzed his technique, or lack thereof. Ifnakh had some inaccuracy, making for some unexpected moves. There was no pattern to his movements, and he had enough skill to leave very few openings. He wasn't clumsy as some orcs, but he wasn't graceful, at least, not like Legolas was. His 'grace', for the lack of a better term, was crude and seemed to be because of whatever weaponry training he'd received.
Then—there it was! The opening she'd been waiting for! She ducked under his blade, and rushed for him, sword out. She rammed him through, under his crude leather breastplate, and felt the tip of her sword go into a tree that had been behind Ifnakh, so hard had she struck him. She fell back, releasing the hilt of her sword, as the orc leader died.
"Nice work," commented Legolas, wiping his blades on the grass. "Whoever taught you, taught you well."
Nyatha blushed, although Legolas did not see, as she was wreathed in shadow. She had always felt somewhat self-conscious of her abilities, since very few females of either race, elves or men, seemed to be warriors. With a wrench, she dragged her bloodstained sword out of the tree and out of the orc, and, like Legolas, wiped it on the grass.
After she had slid the sword back into it's sheath, she straightened and looked around. The sky was lighter, heralding the approach of dawn. From what she could see of the dark clearing, it was littered in dead orcs and the grass was a wash of crimson. Her own battlelust faded as she took the sight in, and the quiet of the forest.
Suddenly a sharp pain mde her glance at her left shoulder, where the arrow had pierced it. She stared in weary fascination as blood dripped down her arm, sticky and mixed with her own sweat.
"Don't touch it," warned Legolas as she subconsciously moved a hand towards the wound. She hadn't noticed him come near, but there he was. He tore a strip off the bottom of his dark green tunic and wrapped it around her shoulder gently, while she blinked the tiredness of the aftermath of a battle from her drowsy eyes.
"Wh-what happened?" she asked, pulling away from him and attempting to stand. She wobbled, and grabbed a nearby tree to steady herself.
Legolas looked at her quizzicly, and she shook herself and continued, "I mean, from where did the fresh orcs come?"
"I believe they were another of the group that split up." He gave a sigh, then added, "And two escaped. I tried to stop them, but it was either fight or lose my life at that moment."
"How long was I down for?"
Legolas shrugged, "Not long. You surprise me, maethor sell—I did not expect that you would get up."
Nyatha's mouth twisted into a mockery of a grin as she stifled a yawn, but she said nothing. She hd expected that the Elf would underestimate her. Well, now he knew better.
Legolas looked her over, and frowned. "I believe we should rest for today. You do not seem well. For all you put on an impressive performance this night, the race of Men weaken quicker than the Elves."
Nyatha protested, "This wound is nought but a scratch! I will be fine." She stood straighter, took the hand off the tree. She managed three steps before her knees attempted to give in on her. To her embaressment, Legolas caught her and picked her up.
"Indeed," he said, humour in his voice.
He turned his direction to their former camp, where, with luck, their horses and packs would be safe.
***
"Oh, but you are also wounded," said Nyatha as Legolas bathed her wounded shoulder with heated water and material from a spare cloak he had brought, and slashed with his razor-sharp daggers. Legolas looked at his right arm, where a bloody line proclaimed Nyatha's statement true.
Legolas shrugged. "It is not life-threatening," he told her, removing the bloodstained, soggy cloth and squeezing it over the grass, where reddened drops of boiled streamwater fell.
"Neither is this arrow-wound," commented Nyatha, wincing as he re-bound her shoulder tightly.
The two were by the campfire. Nyatha was sitting cross-legged on her cloak, wearing a sleeveless night-tunic she had found buried deep in a saddle-bag, breeches and boots. Legolas was kneeling in front of her, a pot of fire-heated water from a stream a few paces from their camp beside him by the fire, cut-up strips of his former cloak lying on the other side of him, far from the fire. Avormith was grazing two meters away, and Kivan was beside her, hobbled and munching contentedly away at the grass.
"You're also tired after fighting that orc," pointed out Legolas.
"You fought almost a dozen of those unpleasant creatures, and you're worried about me fighting one?" muttered Nyatha bitterly, pulling a bit of salted rabbit meat out of a pouch, and biting into it.
"I'm an Elf," said Legolas dismissively, "You were not only riding and tracking all day, you fought the leader, who was the most well-trained of the lot, and you took a deep arrow-wound. You've been up since dawn this morning, and I've heard that the race of Men need to sleep every night to regain their true strength."
"Elves don't sleep every night?" asked Nyatha.
"We don't sleep the way mortals sleep," said Legolas easily, "And we require less rest."
Nyatha looked a bit wistful at that, "It must be wonderful to be immortal," she sighed, her voice sleepy.
Legolas shrugged. "There are times of joy, and times of sorrow as with Men, also."
If he said anything else, Nyatha didn't hear, as she had fallen asleep, her body falling onto the cloak.
Legolas smiled at the young woman, and gently covered her with his cloak. He rose and glanced at the rising sun.