Legolas Greenleaf, Agent of MESS, in
You Only Live Forever
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, which is why I am posting it on this site. Legolas and associated characters were created by JRR Tolkien. James Bond was created by Ian Fleming. Legolas' appearance belongs to Orlando Bloom in a wig.
Author's Notes: Despite my watching 'Casualty' (on BBC) almost religiously, I am no trained medical professional. Don't try these medical practices at home. If I had been there Aragorn wouldn't have survived, I can't even keep woodlice alive in jars.
Review replies: theinklesspen: as if I'd bash you over the head...only when provoked. And here's your update. On time, miraculously. And he's not lost, he's geographically dislocated.
Nemo Returning: Elf-magic? To be honest, I'm never sure how much magic the Elves have. Not finger-clicking good (sorry, irresistible pun) style anyway. And what an unholy image of Legolas in a round pair of glasses...though Snape-style robes maybe.
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Chapter 6. Some Means of Escape
Greenleaf shivered suddenly, not really feeling the cold of the Mines but reacting to it all the same. What he had said earlier –about not being afraid of caves- was true, but didn't quite extend to his current situation. The caves of Mirkwood were a far cry from these huge, soulless Mines. There was no life to them, and the fields where the Sun walked were a long way away. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable, blind in the blackness around him. Without really thinking about it he retightened the straps of his quiver, settling it snugly in its familiar place against his back. He touched his bow, reassuring himself of its presence. Then his fingers moved to his knife sheath, which hung empty from his belt. He gripped it for a moment, squeezing the leather in a nervous movement. Noticing what he was doing, he let go, consciously holding his hands still by his sides.
Not knowing what else to do, he listened. He really had no idea what to do, and this made him feel helpless. He hated this. The Mines around him were mostly silent, oppressively so. There was water in the distance that he could hear, but nothing else. There was far too much rock around for his tastes, and he wished that he was out of it. If he got out –no, when he got out, damn it- he would never set foot in these Valar-forsaken Mines again. Not for the first time, he wondered why the hell anyone would build or live in a place like this. He cursed every last Dwarf on Middle-earth, every Dwarf that ever had been and every Dwarf who would be. Having done this, he felt a little better, but the feeling soon passed.
A few drips fell suddenly away to his left and caused him to jump, body tensing. He forced himself to calm down and not panic. He couldn't afford to panic; he'd only get out if he kept a clear head. But it was difficult. He simply couldn't forget where he was, how dark it was, how lost he was, how much rock there was, and that he was very, very lost. Another faint sound made him start, and again he berated himself. It was no good getting spooked. He needed to get out of these caves before he went mad, but he couldn't for the life of him think of how. It was ridiculous; he was a highly-trained agent who had been in many impossible situations before and had always got out of them. But this, this was horrendously worse. As hard as he tried to snap out of it, he found that he couldn't. He was, he admitted unwillingly, scared.
Slowly, unconsciously, he sank down to the floor. He huddled there, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. The rocks of the wall pressed against his back. In his fear, imagination began to take over. All sorts of thoughts began a parade through his head, mocking and taunting him. Sounds seemed to come from all around: laughter, jeers, snorts and growls. They were so real to Greenleaf, almost convincing him that he was surrounded by a myriad of odd creatures. Even though it was pitch black he didn't dare lift his head to look. His breathing sped up, his heart racing as cold hands seemed to brush across him, but there was nothing there. He was actually panicking. He tried, desperately, to tell himself that there was nothing there, that he would be fine. But he wouldn't listen, not even to himself, and eventually he screamed.
Enough!
The echoes of his shout faded away into the empty blackness. He shot to his feet, pressing his hands against the wall. There was no one else here, no mysterious voices, no nightmare monsters that used to live under the bed. He was alone. But as good as it was meant to sound, the thought brought no comfort. Alone meant that although he wouldn't face death by horrors unknown, the odds on him dying lost and starved in a distant cave were high, or at least he thought so. The image of him lying alone in a dark corner, far from the light and warmth of the sun and the beauty of the stars, slowly starving to death in a place he hated flashed into his mind. It was not one he wanted, but it wouldn't be moved. He had to get out of here!
The problem was that he didn't know how. He didn't know where he was to start with, and wandering around would only make it worse. All he knew was that the orcs he had killed were up to his left, but other than that he knew nothing. The fight itself had thrown off his sense of direction, and he didn't even know where he had come from. Setting his jaw firmly, he began to follow the wall, touching it with his fingers, towards where the orcs' bodies were. His feet hit the first corpse. He stilled at first, half- expecting the creature to leap up and attack him. But it was dead, and he knew it. He stepped over it, following the wall on. Mere inches on, it vanished. Empty air met his fingers.
Perfectly calm, he reached back to where the wall stopped. He gripped it and slid his foot forward. The floor continued, so it was obviously another possible path. So that gave him at least three different options. He put his back to the wall for a moment, and then walked forward at a right angle to it, directly across the corridor. He held out his arms before him, going slowly and carefully. Rock brushed his fingertips and he stopped. Mimicking his earlier actions, he followed the wall, not at all surprised when it stopped suddenly. The spot he was on, the one where he had killed the orcs, was on a crossroads. He swore loudly. Of all the places! He now had four options, just at this one point. No matter which way he chose, there would be more choices further along, and then yet more. There was no way he could get back to Aragorn and Gimli. He simply didn't know where to go.
He growled angrily –though whether it was against himself, the situation or just everything was not apparent- and slammed his fists into the rock. It hurt, and he resolved not to do it again. It was unnecessary, only wasting energy that would be better used in getting out, if only he knew how to apply it. It was entirely frustrating. If he had had light, he could have tracked the way he had been dragged, but he was in pitch darkness. Feeling for a trail would be impossible, and listening had proved futile. So, like a hunting dog, he sniffed at the air, hoping to detect something, anything. But all that assailed him was the sour, foetid smell of orcs. No matter which way he went, it smelt of orcs. It even overlaid the smell of the Dwarves, a feat that Greenleaf would have thought impossible. Unwillingly, he admitted that right now he would be glad to smell a Dwarf, provided it was alive and would lead him out of there. All there was in his nostrils was orcs, that familiar malodorous stench. Reflecting, he realised that killing the orcs earlier had been a mistake. They must have known where they were going. He had been killing orcs for so long that it had become second nature. It was a depressing thought.
He sat despondently on the floor, fiddling worriedly with his tunic. Part of it was wet, on the arm, and he felt along to find out why. He soon remembered. The cut across his arm stung as he probed it, and he winced. He decided to leave it be and returned to the situation. He had looked, or tried to, listened, felt and smelt. That only left one thing, and Greenleaf was damned if he was going to lick the floor. It wouldn't help anyway. He curled his legs under him, not knowing what to do next. His head was beginning to pound uncomfortably. He rubbed his temples tiredly, trying to alleviate it. The dark, damp Mines were pressing down on his spirits heavily.
A quiet sound caught his ears. It was a tapping, familiar sound. Footsteps! It had to be. The taps were mostly rhythmic, and would occasionally pause or slow. For a sudden, horrible instant Greenleaf thought he might be getting hopeful over a few drips of water, but the taps were getting louder. There was definitely someone, or something coming his way, and he was going to follow them away from this accursed part of the Mines. If the Dwarf had any sense he wouldn't be waiting, though the thought of the stubby being dragging the Man along that tunnel made Greenleaf worry. When he had got out, or at least got his bearings, he would go back for them, or try to anyway. But he was no expert in caves.
He sprang to his feet, moving lightly to the edge of the corridor. He'd be able to follow whatever it was without detection. Their footsteps were more than loud enough to mask the sounds of his. They came closer, approaching along the corridor in which he stood, not bothering to try and see them; it was too dark. Too late he remembered the orc bodies littered across the floor, and cursed himself as the footsteps stopped and their owner gave a surprised grunt. Greenleaf pressed against the wall, waiting for what they would do. From the sound of it, they were feeling over the bodies, giving a faint grunt each time they found a new one.
"Well, this'll be them," they said suddenly, in a deep voice that Greenleaf instantly recognised, "and arrows in them too."
It was the damn Dwarf!
"Only question is," Gimli continued, "where's that blasted Elf? It would be just like a flighty creature such as him to wander off and get himself lost!"
Greenleaf's eyes narrowed dangerously. That was it. The Dwarf was going to pay for that one. It was very easy to pinpoint Gimli's position from the sound of his breathing. Greenleaf simply leapt out, knocking the Dwarf to the ground and pinning him there. He wasn't trying to hurt him –G would have his head for that- but just to scare him. Gimli let out several impressive sounding curses in Dwarvish, which Greenleaf didn't know or understand but wished he did. He just smiled and held the other down. Gimli was shouting.
"Get off me, you. . ."
"Flighty creature?" Greenleaf finished. Gimli went still beneath him.
"Why, you!" he growled. "Let me up, Master Elf!"
Greenleaf did so, though he didn't offer a hand to help. "What are you doing here?" he asked as he heard the Dwarf brushing himself off.
"Finding you," Gimli answered, "I thought that much would be obvious. Do you think I can carry a huge great Man out of here on my own?"
The Dwarf's logic was sound, Greenleaf had to admit. But something else worried him. "Where is Aragorn?"
"Where you left him. I couldn't get him out so I figured it would be safer to leave him there; he's well hidden." Gimli's tone was defiant.
Greenleaf didn't comment, but the Dwarf was right. "What about the orcs?"
"Dead. All of them."
"Good." He hadn't meant to compliment Gimli, but he was impressed despite himself. "Let's get back." He didn't ask how Gimli had found him, and Gimli made no other remark.
They walked through the corridors, taking many forks and turns along the way. Greenleaf knew he would never have done it alone. He had retrieved his arrows from the bodies of the orcs, and he cleaned them with a rag as he walked. He replaced them in his quiver as they reached a lit torch bracketed to the wall. Greenleaf blinked. After all the time he had been in the dark it was uncomfortably bright, even though the flames were small and the light it cast relatively dim.
"It's just up here," Gimli said, continuing up the corridor. He walked through a scattered pile of orc corpses. "I moved them," he explained, "in case any others turned up."
Greenleaf nodded. Inwardly, he was furious at being left in the dark for so long, but that was only a small part of him. He knew that Gimli had done the logical and right thing.
The tunnel itself was round a corner, hidden in darkness. No other orcs seemed to have appeared on the scene, and even if any had been watching it was unlikely that they would have seen the Elf and the Dwarf slipping from shadow to tunnel. The pair hurried up the steep, narrow incline, grazing knees, elbows and hands as they went. Aragorn was exactly where Greenleaf had left him, tucked into a corner. His breathing was fast and rapid, and when Greenleaf felt his forehead it was damp and clammy. The Man was feverish, and it wasn't a good sign. He would need urgent attention when they reached Lothlórien. They could not afford any further delay.
Working together, the Elf and the Dwarf carried the Man up the tunnel, an awkward task in the tiny space. Greenleaf knocked his head against the rock a couple of times. Even Gimli scraped his helmet once or twice. Aragorn's breath hitched every now and then, making Greenleaf's heart jump each time. Biting his lip, he determinedly pushed his emotions aside, trying to concentrate on getting the Man out rather than wincing every time he moaned. Claustrophobia pressed in on the Elf, despite his attempts to ignore it. We're on our way out, he told himself, just think of that. We'll be out of here soon, outside in the trees and on our way to Lórien. Hopefully he'd never have to return to Moria again, not if he had anything to do with it.
Light began to filter down from behind Gimli. Greenleaf smiled a little. Light was hope. He'd been down in the dark for far too long, but he hadn't realised before how much he missed the sun. The Mines were an endless night, without the comfort of stars and moon. He was glad to be out. Even the Dwarf had to be, he reasoned. No creature, even stubby little rock- hewers, could like that place, full of orcs and Valar knew what else. Eventually, through much heaving and cursing, Greenleaf and Gimli carried Aragorn out under the sunshine and into the woods.
It was late morning; they had been in the Mines all night. The day was beautiful, with clear blue skies and little wind. Greenleaf took Aragorn fully into his arms, relieving the Dwarf of the burden. The Man stirred slightly, but remained unconscious. It was for the best really. They hurried through the trees, heading for where they had left their packs and the horses.
"The orcs probably won't follow us," Greenleaf said as they went, "even supposing they think we've escaped. They won't be out in the day."
"What about the Uruk-hai?" Gimli asked.
The Elf thought for a moment, being wary for traps as he walked. "I don't think there're enough of them," he answered finally. "They know we'll be heading straight for Lórien, and it would take them too long to get enough of the Uruk-hai together to form a decent-sized force. And they don't seem to be getting along too well," he continued, more thinking out loud than anything, "there's two different groups, I think. There's Sauron's lot from Mordor, with the red eye device painted on, and there's the ones with another symbol. I didn't get close enough to see."
"It was a white hand," Gimli said, "and they seemed the bigger and more powerful, though there're less of them."
"That's Saruman's device." Greenleaf frowned.
"But I thought he was dead," Gimli said, "after he was discovered breeding an army of Uruk-hai."
"Aye, in Orthanc." Greenleaf's face was cold, a mask. "I killed him myself, and most of his army too. Any that survived were brought down by the Riders of Rohan." The Elf pondered a little. "I suppose some of his Uruk-hai would already have been sent on to Mordor. But they have still kept their old symbol. I wonder why?"
"A matter of pride, I suppose," Gimli replied. "Trying to appear different from the throng, being the elite group."
They reached the small clearing where Shadowfax and Hasufel still waited. The dark-grey horse whinnied in agitation at his master's prone form. Greenleaf patted him on the nose as he went to fetch the packs from the tree. "Peace, Hasufel," he comforted, "he will be well soon enough." I will see to it, he added silently.
Aragorn was laid out on the grass, and Gimli knelt by his head making sure he was calm. Greenleaf examined the Man's injuries as best he could. Things looked worse in the light than he had seen down in the Mines. He undid the cloak from Aragorn's neck, dropping it onto the ground. There was blood soaking through the tunic beneath.
"Here," Gimli's gruff voice said. Greenleaf looked up. The Dwarf was holding out the Elf's silver-handled knife. "I found it after that fight with the orcs," he explained.
"Thank you," Greenleaf said, taking it. He had thought it lost. It was warm from being tucked in Gimli's belt. Hoping he wouldn't catch anything from it, he used it to slice open Aragorn's tunic. The chest he exposed was bloody and bruised. With two more cuts and undoing the Man's belt he removed the tunic completely. Remembering his training under Lord Elrond, Greenleaf did a quick assessment. At least four broken ribs, almost certain internal damage, various severities of contusions, a broken collarbone, a fractured forearm on the same side and multiple lacerations. The Elf reached for his bandages and set to work, getting Gimli to assist by lifting the Man up enough to wrap the bandages round him. When Greenleaf had finished, most of Aragorn's upper body was covered in bandages. A sling held his fractured right arm across his chest, immobilising the broken collarbone as well.
That done, he moved to the legs. He carefully felt down each one, checking them thoroughly. One, the left, was fine, but the right was clearly broken at least twice in the lower leg.
"I need a few fairly sturdy branches to splint this," Greenleaf told the Dwarf. It wasn't exactly worded as an order, possibly being why Gimli stood without complaint to fetch them.
He returned within a few minutes carrying five of the straightest limbs he could find without hacking them off the trees. Greenleaf had already decided against removing Aragorn's boot; it would probably further aggravate the injury. The breaks were clean and were fairly easily pressed into place, though Greenleaf was glad that Aragorn stayed unconscious throughout. He laid the branches, with a brief nod of thanks to Gimli, alongside the leg, and then pulled a blanket from one of the packs. It was already worn and tattered, and he had no compunction as he ripped it into strips. Using these he bound the wood into a splint round Aragorn's leg. It held firm.
Greenleaf sat back on his heels, still looking concerned. Gimli was again kneeling by the Man's head, stroking the fevered brow. Greenleaf watched him for a moment. It seemed amazing to him that a rough creature such as a Dwarf could be so caring. As far as he had been concerned, no Dwarf had ever been capable of tenderness. It was what he had always known; Dwarves were aggressive, angry and non-negotiable. What he saw now seemed completely wrong and contrary, but in an odd way it seemed right.
Greenleaf scowled and moved over to his pack. He didn't want to part with his prejudices; he had had them for a long time and they were closer than most friends. He opened the pack, pushing aside some of the contents. His head ached and other injuries made themselves known, but he ignored them stoically. They would wait until they were all safe in Lórien. He pulled out a black pouch and took out the palantír from within. He laid the pouch on the ground and placed the palantír on top. He touched it gently, feeling the cold glass.
"Agent 0011 calling Lothlórien," he said, a little self-consciously. He repeated his message and watched as the device cleared.
"Lothlórien here, U speaking," a voice replied. The wizard's face appeared, obviously leaning over one of the MIRRORs. "Hello, 0011. How're you doing?"
"We're on our way back," Greenleaf said, "just about to leave the Dale. Aragorn's badly injured; he had a fight with a cave troll. He'll need urgent medical attention as soon as we get in."
"Got that," U answered, less jovial now, "he's in luck. Lord Elrond's still here. Did you accomplish your mission?"
"Of course." Greenleaf smiled softly. "Would you expect any different?"
"Oh, no." U smiled too, then frowned as his beard brushed across the surface of the MIRROR and the image rippled, fragmenting into many pieces before reforming. "Be seeing you. U out."
The palantír went black. Greenleaf replaced it in the pack along with everything else and fastened the bag. He stood and collected the other two packs, carrying them over to Hasufel. The horse stood patiently as the Elf loaded him with the packs. His nose nudged Greenleaf's shoulder gently and got an affectionate pat in return.
"We must ride for Lórien with all speed," Greenleaf told Gimli, while he adjusted Hasufel's tack.
"How?" the Dwarf demanded. He eyed the Elf suspiciously, momentarily forgetting Aragorn, whose head now lay in his lap. "What are you doing?"
Greenleaf smiled and stood back. The stirrups were now right up by the saddle. "You'll have to ride Hasufel," he said, "and I'll have Aragorn on Shadowfax with me."
"You're crazy!" Gimli's face was a picture, a perfect illustration of astonishment and disbelief. "I'll never be able to ride that beast!"
"It's the only way," Greenleaf told him, "come dark and the orcs'll be out, if they're not out sooner. I can't just leave you behind." Though I'd like to, he thought, but didn't get the usual pleasure from the idea. "He'll follow Shadowfax; you don't need to guide him, just hang on tight. Here, I'll give you a leg up."
Muttering dire things about crazy Elves and their crazy horses and how much he'd rather be back in the caves, Gimli allowed Greenleaf to help him up, though with bad grace. He clutched at the leathers, watching as Greenleaf wrapped the Man's cloak around the still unconscious figure and then his own as well. He placed Aragorn on Shadowfax's back, swinging himself up a moment later. The stallion moved on at his command, Hasufel following directly after. They picked up speed and Gimli clung on even tighter.
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You Only Live Forever
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, which is why I am posting it on this site. Legolas and associated characters were created by JRR Tolkien. James Bond was created by Ian Fleming. Legolas' appearance belongs to Orlando Bloom in a wig.
Author's Notes: Despite my watching 'Casualty' (on BBC) almost religiously, I am no trained medical professional. Don't try these medical practices at home. If I had been there Aragorn wouldn't have survived, I can't even keep woodlice alive in jars.
Review replies: theinklesspen: as if I'd bash you over the head...only when provoked. And here's your update. On time, miraculously. And he's not lost, he's geographically dislocated.
Nemo Returning: Elf-magic? To be honest, I'm never sure how much magic the Elves have. Not finger-clicking good (sorry, irresistible pun) style anyway. And what an unholy image of Legolas in a round pair of glasses...though Snape-style robes maybe.
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Chapter 6. Some Means of Escape
Greenleaf shivered suddenly, not really feeling the cold of the Mines but reacting to it all the same. What he had said earlier –about not being afraid of caves- was true, but didn't quite extend to his current situation. The caves of Mirkwood were a far cry from these huge, soulless Mines. There was no life to them, and the fields where the Sun walked were a long way away. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable, blind in the blackness around him. Without really thinking about it he retightened the straps of his quiver, settling it snugly in its familiar place against his back. He touched his bow, reassuring himself of its presence. Then his fingers moved to his knife sheath, which hung empty from his belt. He gripped it for a moment, squeezing the leather in a nervous movement. Noticing what he was doing, he let go, consciously holding his hands still by his sides.
Not knowing what else to do, he listened. He really had no idea what to do, and this made him feel helpless. He hated this. The Mines around him were mostly silent, oppressively so. There was water in the distance that he could hear, but nothing else. There was far too much rock around for his tastes, and he wished that he was out of it. If he got out –no, when he got out, damn it- he would never set foot in these Valar-forsaken Mines again. Not for the first time, he wondered why the hell anyone would build or live in a place like this. He cursed every last Dwarf on Middle-earth, every Dwarf that ever had been and every Dwarf who would be. Having done this, he felt a little better, but the feeling soon passed.
A few drips fell suddenly away to his left and caused him to jump, body tensing. He forced himself to calm down and not panic. He couldn't afford to panic; he'd only get out if he kept a clear head. But it was difficult. He simply couldn't forget where he was, how dark it was, how lost he was, how much rock there was, and that he was very, very lost. Another faint sound made him start, and again he berated himself. It was no good getting spooked. He needed to get out of these caves before he went mad, but he couldn't for the life of him think of how. It was ridiculous; he was a highly-trained agent who had been in many impossible situations before and had always got out of them. But this, this was horrendously worse. As hard as he tried to snap out of it, he found that he couldn't. He was, he admitted unwillingly, scared.
Slowly, unconsciously, he sank down to the floor. He huddled there, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. The rocks of the wall pressed against his back. In his fear, imagination began to take over. All sorts of thoughts began a parade through his head, mocking and taunting him. Sounds seemed to come from all around: laughter, jeers, snorts and growls. They were so real to Greenleaf, almost convincing him that he was surrounded by a myriad of odd creatures. Even though it was pitch black he didn't dare lift his head to look. His breathing sped up, his heart racing as cold hands seemed to brush across him, but there was nothing there. He was actually panicking. He tried, desperately, to tell himself that there was nothing there, that he would be fine. But he wouldn't listen, not even to himself, and eventually he screamed.
Enough!
The echoes of his shout faded away into the empty blackness. He shot to his feet, pressing his hands against the wall. There was no one else here, no mysterious voices, no nightmare monsters that used to live under the bed. He was alone. But as good as it was meant to sound, the thought brought no comfort. Alone meant that although he wouldn't face death by horrors unknown, the odds on him dying lost and starved in a distant cave were high, or at least he thought so. The image of him lying alone in a dark corner, far from the light and warmth of the sun and the beauty of the stars, slowly starving to death in a place he hated flashed into his mind. It was not one he wanted, but it wouldn't be moved. He had to get out of here!
The problem was that he didn't know how. He didn't know where he was to start with, and wandering around would only make it worse. All he knew was that the orcs he had killed were up to his left, but other than that he knew nothing. The fight itself had thrown off his sense of direction, and he didn't even know where he had come from. Setting his jaw firmly, he began to follow the wall, touching it with his fingers, towards where the orcs' bodies were. His feet hit the first corpse. He stilled at first, half- expecting the creature to leap up and attack him. But it was dead, and he knew it. He stepped over it, following the wall on. Mere inches on, it vanished. Empty air met his fingers.
Perfectly calm, he reached back to where the wall stopped. He gripped it and slid his foot forward. The floor continued, so it was obviously another possible path. So that gave him at least three different options. He put his back to the wall for a moment, and then walked forward at a right angle to it, directly across the corridor. He held out his arms before him, going slowly and carefully. Rock brushed his fingertips and he stopped. Mimicking his earlier actions, he followed the wall, not at all surprised when it stopped suddenly. The spot he was on, the one where he had killed the orcs, was on a crossroads. He swore loudly. Of all the places! He now had four options, just at this one point. No matter which way he chose, there would be more choices further along, and then yet more. There was no way he could get back to Aragorn and Gimli. He simply didn't know where to go.
He growled angrily –though whether it was against himself, the situation or just everything was not apparent- and slammed his fists into the rock. It hurt, and he resolved not to do it again. It was unnecessary, only wasting energy that would be better used in getting out, if only he knew how to apply it. It was entirely frustrating. If he had had light, he could have tracked the way he had been dragged, but he was in pitch darkness. Feeling for a trail would be impossible, and listening had proved futile. So, like a hunting dog, he sniffed at the air, hoping to detect something, anything. But all that assailed him was the sour, foetid smell of orcs. No matter which way he went, it smelt of orcs. It even overlaid the smell of the Dwarves, a feat that Greenleaf would have thought impossible. Unwillingly, he admitted that right now he would be glad to smell a Dwarf, provided it was alive and would lead him out of there. All there was in his nostrils was orcs, that familiar malodorous stench. Reflecting, he realised that killing the orcs earlier had been a mistake. They must have known where they were going. He had been killing orcs for so long that it had become second nature. It was a depressing thought.
He sat despondently on the floor, fiddling worriedly with his tunic. Part of it was wet, on the arm, and he felt along to find out why. He soon remembered. The cut across his arm stung as he probed it, and he winced. He decided to leave it be and returned to the situation. He had looked, or tried to, listened, felt and smelt. That only left one thing, and Greenleaf was damned if he was going to lick the floor. It wouldn't help anyway. He curled his legs under him, not knowing what to do next. His head was beginning to pound uncomfortably. He rubbed his temples tiredly, trying to alleviate it. The dark, damp Mines were pressing down on his spirits heavily.
A quiet sound caught his ears. It was a tapping, familiar sound. Footsteps! It had to be. The taps were mostly rhythmic, and would occasionally pause or slow. For a sudden, horrible instant Greenleaf thought he might be getting hopeful over a few drips of water, but the taps were getting louder. There was definitely someone, or something coming his way, and he was going to follow them away from this accursed part of the Mines. If the Dwarf had any sense he wouldn't be waiting, though the thought of the stubby being dragging the Man along that tunnel made Greenleaf worry. When he had got out, or at least got his bearings, he would go back for them, or try to anyway. But he was no expert in caves.
He sprang to his feet, moving lightly to the edge of the corridor. He'd be able to follow whatever it was without detection. Their footsteps were more than loud enough to mask the sounds of his. They came closer, approaching along the corridor in which he stood, not bothering to try and see them; it was too dark. Too late he remembered the orc bodies littered across the floor, and cursed himself as the footsteps stopped and their owner gave a surprised grunt. Greenleaf pressed against the wall, waiting for what they would do. From the sound of it, they were feeling over the bodies, giving a faint grunt each time they found a new one.
"Well, this'll be them," they said suddenly, in a deep voice that Greenleaf instantly recognised, "and arrows in them too."
It was the damn Dwarf!
"Only question is," Gimli continued, "where's that blasted Elf? It would be just like a flighty creature such as him to wander off and get himself lost!"
Greenleaf's eyes narrowed dangerously. That was it. The Dwarf was going to pay for that one. It was very easy to pinpoint Gimli's position from the sound of his breathing. Greenleaf simply leapt out, knocking the Dwarf to the ground and pinning him there. He wasn't trying to hurt him –G would have his head for that- but just to scare him. Gimli let out several impressive sounding curses in Dwarvish, which Greenleaf didn't know or understand but wished he did. He just smiled and held the other down. Gimli was shouting.
"Get off me, you. . ."
"Flighty creature?" Greenleaf finished. Gimli went still beneath him.
"Why, you!" he growled. "Let me up, Master Elf!"
Greenleaf did so, though he didn't offer a hand to help. "What are you doing here?" he asked as he heard the Dwarf brushing himself off.
"Finding you," Gimli answered, "I thought that much would be obvious. Do you think I can carry a huge great Man out of here on my own?"
The Dwarf's logic was sound, Greenleaf had to admit. But something else worried him. "Where is Aragorn?"
"Where you left him. I couldn't get him out so I figured it would be safer to leave him there; he's well hidden." Gimli's tone was defiant.
Greenleaf didn't comment, but the Dwarf was right. "What about the orcs?"
"Dead. All of them."
"Good." He hadn't meant to compliment Gimli, but he was impressed despite himself. "Let's get back." He didn't ask how Gimli had found him, and Gimli made no other remark.
They walked through the corridors, taking many forks and turns along the way. Greenleaf knew he would never have done it alone. He had retrieved his arrows from the bodies of the orcs, and he cleaned them with a rag as he walked. He replaced them in his quiver as they reached a lit torch bracketed to the wall. Greenleaf blinked. After all the time he had been in the dark it was uncomfortably bright, even though the flames were small and the light it cast relatively dim.
"It's just up here," Gimli said, continuing up the corridor. He walked through a scattered pile of orc corpses. "I moved them," he explained, "in case any others turned up."
Greenleaf nodded. Inwardly, he was furious at being left in the dark for so long, but that was only a small part of him. He knew that Gimli had done the logical and right thing.
The tunnel itself was round a corner, hidden in darkness. No other orcs seemed to have appeared on the scene, and even if any had been watching it was unlikely that they would have seen the Elf and the Dwarf slipping from shadow to tunnel. The pair hurried up the steep, narrow incline, grazing knees, elbows and hands as they went. Aragorn was exactly where Greenleaf had left him, tucked into a corner. His breathing was fast and rapid, and when Greenleaf felt his forehead it was damp and clammy. The Man was feverish, and it wasn't a good sign. He would need urgent attention when they reached Lothlórien. They could not afford any further delay.
Working together, the Elf and the Dwarf carried the Man up the tunnel, an awkward task in the tiny space. Greenleaf knocked his head against the rock a couple of times. Even Gimli scraped his helmet once or twice. Aragorn's breath hitched every now and then, making Greenleaf's heart jump each time. Biting his lip, he determinedly pushed his emotions aside, trying to concentrate on getting the Man out rather than wincing every time he moaned. Claustrophobia pressed in on the Elf, despite his attempts to ignore it. We're on our way out, he told himself, just think of that. We'll be out of here soon, outside in the trees and on our way to Lórien. Hopefully he'd never have to return to Moria again, not if he had anything to do with it.
Light began to filter down from behind Gimli. Greenleaf smiled a little. Light was hope. He'd been down in the dark for far too long, but he hadn't realised before how much he missed the sun. The Mines were an endless night, without the comfort of stars and moon. He was glad to be out. Even the Dwarf had to be, he reasoned. No creature, even stubby little rock- hewers, could like that place, full of orcs and Valar knew what else. Eventually, through much heaving and cursing, Greenleaf and Gimli carried Aragorn out under the sunshine and into the woods.
It was late morning; they had been in the Mines all night. The day was beautiful, with clear blue skies and little wind. Greenleaf took Aragorn fully into his arms, relieving the Dwarf of the burden. The Man stirred slightly, but remained unconscious. It was for the best really. They hurried through the trees, heading for where they had left their packs and the horses.
"The orcs probably won't follow us," Greenleaf said as they went, "even supposing they think we've escaped. They won't be out in the day."
"What about the Uruk-hai?" Gimli asked.
The Elf thought for a moment, being wary for traps as he walked. "I don't think there're enough of them," he answered finally. "They know we'll be heading straight for Lórien, and it would take them too long to get enough of the Uruk-hai together to form a decent-sized force. And they don't seem to be getting along too well," he continued, more thinking out loud than anything, "there's two different groups, I think. There's Sauron's lot from Mordor, with the red eye device painted on, and there's the ones with another symbol. I didn't get close enough to see."
"It was a white hand," Gimli said, "and they seemed the bigger and more powerful, though there're less of them."
"That's Saruman's device." Greenleaf frowned.
"But I thought he was dead," Gimli said, "after he was discovered breeding an army of Uruk-hai."
"Aye, in Orthanc." Greenleaf's face was cold, a mask. "I killed him myself, and most of his army too. Any that survived were brought down by the Riders of Rohan." The Elf pondered a little. "I suppose some of his Uruk-hai would already have been sent on to Mordor. But they have still kept their old symbol. I wonder why?"
"A matter of pride, I suppose," Gimli replied. "Trying to appear different from the throng, being the elite group."
They reached the small clearing where Shadowfax and Hasufel still waited. The dark-grey horse whinnied in agitation at his master's prone form. Greenleaf patted him on the nose as he went to fetch the packs from the tree. "Peace, Hasufel," he comforted, "he will be well soon enough." I will see to it, he added silently.
Aragorn was laid out on the grass, and Gimli knelt by his head making sure he was calm. Greenleaf examined the Man's injuries as best he could. Things looked worse in the light than he had seen down in the Mines. He undid the cloak from Aragorn's neck, dropping it onto the ground. There was blood soaking through the tunic beneath.
"Here," Gimli's gruff voice said. Greenleaf looked up. The Dwarf was holding out the Elf's silver-handled knife. "I found it after that fight with the orcs," he explained.
"Thank you," Greenleaf said, taking it. He had thought it lost. It was warm from being tucked in Gimli's belt. Hoping he wouldn't catch anything from it, he used it to slice open Aragorn's tunic. The chest he exposed was bloody and bruised. With two more cuts and undoing the Man's belt he removed the tunic completely. Remembering his training under Lord Elrond, Greenleaf did a quick assessment. At least four broken ribs, almost certain internal damage, various severities of contusions, a broken collarbone, a fractured forearm on the same side and multiple lacerations. The Elf reached for his bandages and set to work, getting Gimli to assist by lifting the Man up enough to wrap the bandages round him. When Greenleaf had finished, most of Aragorn's upper body was covered in bandages. A sling held his fractured right arm across his chest, immobilising the broken collarbone as well.
That done, he moved to the legs. He carefully felt down each one, checking them thoroughly. One, the left, was fine, but the right was clearly broken at least twice in the lower leg.
"I need a few fairly sturdy branches to splint this," Greenleaf told the Dwarf. It wasn't exactly worded as an order, possibly being why Gimli stood without complaint to fetch them.
He returned within a few minutes carrying five of the straightest limbs he could find without hacking them off the trees. Greenleaf had already decided against removing Aragorn's boot; it would probably further aggravate the injury. The breaks were clean and were fairly easily pressed into place, though Greenleaf was glad that Aragorn stayed unconscious throughout. He laid the branches, with a brief nod of thanks to Gimli, alongside the leg, and then pulled a blanket from one of the packs. It was already worn and tattered, and he had no compunction as he ripped it into strips. Using these he bound the wood into a splint round Aragorn's leg. It held firm.
Greenleaf sat back on his heels, still looking concerned. Gimli was again kneeling by the Man's head, stroking the fevered brow. Greenleaf watched him for a moment. It seemed amazing to him that a rough creature such as a Dwarf could be so caring. As far as he had been concerned, no Dwarf had ever been capable of tenderness. It was what he had always known; Dwarves were aggressive, angry and non-negotiable. What he saw now seemed completely wrong and contrary, but in an odd way it seemed right.
Greenleaf scowled and moved over to his pack. He didn't want to part with his prejudices; he had had them for a long time and they were closer than most friends. He opened the pack, pushing aside some of the contents. His head ached and other injuries made themselves known, but he ignored them stoically. They would wait until they were all safe in Lórien. He pulled out a black pouch and took out the palantír from within. He laid the pouch on the ground and placed the palantír on top. He touched it gently, feeling the cold glass.
"Agent 0011 calling Lothlórien," he said, a little self-consciously. He repeated his message and watched as the device cleared.
"Lothlórien here, U speaking," a voice replied. The wizard's face appeared, obviously leaning over one of the MIRRORs. "Hello, 0011. How're you doing?"
"We're on our way back," Greenleaf said, "just about to leave the Dale. Aragorn's badly injured; he had a fight with a cave troll. He'll need urgent medical attention as soon as we get in."
"Got that," U answered, less jovial now, "he's in luck. Lord Elrond's still here. Did you accomplish your mission?"
"Of course." Greenleaf smiled softly. "Would you expect any different?"
"Oh, no." U smiled too, then frowned as his beard brushed across the surface of the MIRROR and the image rippled, fragmenting into many pieces before reforming. "Be seeing you. U out."
The palantír went black. Greenleaf replaced it in the pack along with everything else and fastened the bag. He stood and collected the other two packs, carrying them over to Hasufel. The horse stood patiently as the Elf loaded him with the packs. His nose nudged Greenleaf's shoulder gently and got an affectionate pat in return.
"We must ride for Lórien with all speed," Greenleaf told Gimli, while he adjusted Hasufel's tack.
"How?" the Dwarf demanded. He eyed the Elf suspiciously, momentarily forgetting Aragorn, whose head now lay in his lap. "What are you doing?"
Greenleaf smiled and stood back. The stirrups were now right up by the saddle. "You'll have to ride Hasufel," he said, "and I'll have Aragorn on Shadowfax with me."
"You're crazy!" Gimli's face was a picture, a perfect illustration of astonishment and disbelief. "I'll never be able to ride that beast!"
"It's the only way," Greenleaf told him, "come dark and the orcs'll be out, if they're not out sooner. I can't just leave you behind." Though I'd like to, he thought, but didn't get the usual pleasure from the idea. "He'll follow Shadowfax; you don't need to guide him, just hang on tight. Here, I'll give you a leg up."
Muttering dire things about crazy Elves and their crazy horses and how much he'd rather be back in the caves, Gimli allowed Greenleaf to help him up, though with bad grace. He clutched at the leathers, watching as Greenleaf wrapped the Man's cloak around the still unconscious figure and then his own as well. He placed Aragorn on Shadowfax's back, swinging himself up a moment later. The stallion moved on at his command, Hasufel following directly after. They picked up speed and Gimli clung on even tighter.
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