Disclaimer: Refer to Chapter One
Chapter 9: Beneath the Watchtower
As two dejected, soggy riders collected their equally dejected and soggy horses, a sharp wind howled through the canyon. Moraelin's fingers were numbed by the cold and she clumsily fought the straps of Rock's tack.
"Here," a gentle voice came from very close to her ear as Legolas took her hands in his. He set them aside and finished saddling Rock for her as the horse fidgeted unhappily. Moraelin kept her eyes trained to the ground. The scalding heat of his skin still lingered on the back of her hands, which she now clutched tightly together within her cloak. She mumbled an inarticulate thank you and climbed into the saddle. She watched Legolas's broad back as he urged Embryn to the lead and resolved to keep such casual contact to a minimum for the rest of their quest. She could not think straight with him so close and she was going to need to keep a clear mind if she was meant to be a negotiator.
A negotiator. It was preposterous, even to her own ears it seemed some type of feeble joke. She had been a stablehand, a mercenary, and a guide over the years, and most recently fought with the Dunedain. None of these professions required much in the way of communication skills. Maybe if she had been a street vendor or a teacher she would have a way with flowery words. But, a few decades among Rangers who could be silent for days when it suited them had surely dulled her language talents.
But, the Rangers had taught her about listening, about reading what people don't say as easily as what they say. Moraelin could tell just by looking at Legolas that he was impatient to be back in his forest, although he did not want her to know this. She could also tell he was apprehensive. Whether it was her ability to save Talendil he was unsure of, or the reception Moraelin would receive once back in Greenwood, she did not know. Both uncertainties troubled her own mind in equal measure. She simply hoped to do what was asked of her and slip away, return to Dreary Vale and to her life so that Mirkwood could simply forget about her again. Yes, that would surely be best.
The pathetic gray glow of an overcast dawn soon spread across the sky and Legolas fell back, riding beside Moraelin. A few stray snowflakes drifted down from above to settle in the folds of his cloak.
"You have not asked about my mother," Legolas observed.
"Surely she sailed . . . did she not?" Moraelin looked quizzically over at him.
"No, she chose to remain on these shores, though Father and I tried tirelessly to convince her to go."
Moraelin absorbed this news with a thoughtful frown. Legolas cut into her musings, his voice cautious, "Although, your stepmother did leave for the sea quite some time ago, when the spreading darkness became ominous."
Moraelin's face hardened, "I didn't know they were letting trolls into Valinor these days. The standards must be more lax than I had thought, maybe even a mutt like me could get in now."
Legolas shook his head, "Ilianel may not have been the most pleasant she-elf in Mirkwood, but I would not call her a troll."
"I would," she said quickly. She met Legolas's eyes, "Oh, do not give me that look, Legolas. She was not overly fond of me either. To her, I was just some unwanted baggage attached to her trophy husband, she never tried to hide that."
Legolas smiled in resignation, "Well, you will not have to deal with her now."
"That is good, for she would probably be an absolute mess knowing her precious baby was a prisoner of the dwarves. Worthless sniveling woman. Valinor can have her."
Legolas chuckled, shaking his head again, this time in amazement, "After dealing with the bland, boring maidens skulking around the palace, it is good to be around someone who speaks her mind."
"The ladies still buzzing around you like flies on a carcass?"
Legolas scowled, "Nice analogy. But, yes."
Moraelin's over-confident smirk returned, "Poor, poor Legolas."
"Again, something none of those women would dare say to me. You are going to take some getting used to, Moraelin."
They chuckled, argued, and spoke of unimportant things as a cold day settled around them. Miles passed beneath their horses' hooves, the miserable dampness of their clothing persisting in the saturated air.
It was well into the afternoon when Legolas halted, staring ahead with a perplexed expression, "What is that?"
She followed his look, "We have reached the ruins."
"Ruins?" Legolas gazed through the aspen trees, studying the dark mass of stone.
"No one knows much about them," she began, "History is not of great interest to the pig farmers of the vale. As near as I can figure, men of old once used this canyon as a travel corridor. Now, the route is largely unknown except to locals. I'd warrant this was once an outpost. There is a watchtower and a couple of fortified buildings. There used to be more of them near the valley, but the villagers tore them down, carted out the stone and reused it. You might have noticed the large fireplace in the tavern . . . those blocks were from a watchtower."
"Fascinating," he said sincerely.
"You can take a look around if you'd like. We should eat a little and rest the horses anyway."
Legolas nodded in agreement, dismounting. "I'm going to refill the water bags, all right?" Moraelin asked, but she could see he already approached the ruins. She had never known him to be so interested in the history of men. She shrugged and climbed also from her horse, leaving Rocky to graze. "Don't wander too far," she called to the horse as if fully believing he could understand her, "You have our dinner in your saddlebags."
Legolas wove through the trees, drawn forward by an invisible hand. He could see that the weathered stone of the tower had once been masterfully carved. It was ornamented with statues of beasts and warriors, their faces now rubbed away by the ravages of time. The domed top had partially fallen in, and the pillars that had once held it were scattered on the ground. They were carved in the likeness of dragons and some still held the rusted braces where torches had been placed. Even to an elf, the place was ancient, the architecture whispered of a long-gone era of glory. But, as he approached the door to the ruined structure, a cold fear took root in him. Something was wrong. As his blue eyes widened, it occurred to him that if he were a creature of darkness, he would hide from the sunlight in such a place. His awe was quickly replaced with wariness. Something moved in the corner of his vision, but when he spun to face it, there was nothing. He opened his mouth to call for Moraelin, but only a sharp grunt escaped as he felt dull metal tear across his side.
Moraelin bent to fill their canteens, the water icy cold over her hands. Its long journey from the snows of the Misty Mountains had reached its end. She recapped the container, her movements carefully controlled as she sensed eyes upon her. She tilted her head slightly to look over her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. Slowly, her hand went to the small axe at her belt. Before she had a chance to draw the weapon, a dark form shot from the undergrowth and drove her to the ground. Moraelin hit the earth hard, but rolled to the side, coming up atop the mangy orc. She drove a fist into his crooked teeth, and slipped a dagger from her belt. She meant to slit the creature's throat, but her senses screamed of more imminent danger. Moraelin dropped forward and felt the tickle of a breeze over the back of her neck as a dull axe swung just above her. She rolled to the side, trying to jump to her feet, but too late. Another orc drove his foot into her back and she collapsed to the ground, the breath forced from her lungs. Where had they all come from?
Without thought, Moraelin lifted her arm just enough to bury her dagger in the foot of the nearest orc. He howled in pain and she was quickly on her hands and knees. Before she could regain her feet, the largest orc stepped up and kicked her in the face with a heavy, booted foot. Moraelin saw orange stars flash before her vision and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She dropped back to the forest floor, losing the grip on her weapon. "Legolas," she cried weakly, her split lip pouring blood down her chin. Surely he could hear this commotion; where was he?
Moraelin tried to reach for a weapon again, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Just as quickly, an orc gripped her wrist, and though she fought to twist it from his grasp, soon it was forced up behind her, and driven so far up her back she felt her arm begin to pull from its socket. She tried to flail her other arm, flip over, anything. The helplessness, the hopelessness, the stench of orc all around her transported her back to that encampment all those years ago. She could remember them leering at her, feeling a club slam into her right arm and hearing the sickening crack of breaking bone. It was almost as if she could no longer distinguish memories from reality as an orc drove a knee into her back, gathering a fistful of her hair. He jerked her head up and she could feel a spray of spit as he whispered in her ear, "You're ours now, beautiful."
Moraelin saw a flash of metal in the corner of her vision and she struggled further. She could feel a knife press lightly to her neck, "What say you, boys? Kill her now or kill her once we've finished with her?"
"I don't care, she'll be warm for a while yet either way."
The raucous laughter of the orcs filled the air. Moraelin screamed, the rage in her voice enough to chill another creature to the bone, but the orcs only crowed louder with disgusting laughter. Underneath their cackling, a sharp whistle cut through the forest. The crude knife that had been bound for her throat fell harmlessly to the ground before her eyes as the orc dropped dead on top of her. Her eyes slipped shut in relief, hearing the bewildered yelling of their enemies soon cut off by rapid humming of arrows. One last dull thud of a collapsing body, then silence.
Moraelin lay beneath the reeking body, too exhausted to move. She felt it thrown away from her, and gentle hands cupped her shoulders. Moraelin slowly made it to her hands and knees and Legolas helped her turn over and sit down heavily. Around her swollen lips, she scolded, "I had them just where I wanted them, Legolas. Must you come charging in and steal all the glory?" She glanced up at Legolas, seeing a hint of terror lingering in the blue depths of his eyes, but now a slow smile spread across his lips. He released a breath he did not realize he had been holding.
"I'm sorry Moraelin. I'm sorry I did not come to you sooner."
"I told you, Legolas, I was just about ready to take them when you showed up. But, I appreciate the help nonetheless." She began crawling to the stream, but continued, "You know, you're rather handy. I might just keep you around."
"Moraelin, let me take a look at your face," Legolas called, following her.
"I'm all right," she insisted, brushing away his hands and turning to the creek, which was swollen from the night's rain.
"No, you're not," he said, but she barely heard him as she had dunked her head in the water to wash away the blood that covered the lower half of her face. She sat up, but her head swam a little, the world around her dimming. In her confusion, she could swear she saw Aldruid's face, and Elladan standing just behind him. The revolting smell of the orc camp assaulted her nose. Her left eye was swollen shut, and she could see only through a tiny slit of her right eye. She was slumped forward, with not even the strength to lift her head, even when the chaos of battle around her subsided. Suddenly she could sense someone kneeling before her and braced herself for the blow that would surely follow. But, instead, a hand cupped her chin, lifting her face carefully. Despite the gentle grip, she felt the ends of her broken jawbone grate together, the pain exploding through her gut. She moaned weakly and tried to tear her face away. She heard Aldruid gasp the words, "She's alive."
Moraelin shook her head briskly, both to clear away the mist of memories and shake the water from her hair. Legolas flinched away from the spray. Moraelin wiped the blood from her face with the back of a sleeve, rising unsteadily to her feet. But, as she glanced down at her hand, she saw that the shakes had returned. She cursed, and turned away from Legolas, hoping he would not see. But, he was all too aware.
"Moraelin," he said hesitantly, "Let me look at your face."
She turned slowly to him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Legolas ducked his head and began examining her nose and mouth. Her nose was still bleeding a little, but quick inspection told him it was not broken. Her top and bottom lip were both split open, and the left side of her jaw was beginning to swell. Underneath the bright crimson of her blood, her lips had gone white, he could only assume from fear. After a while, Moraelin looked up to find that he was no longer studying her injuries, but now searched her eyes, as if trying to catch a glimpse of what Moraelin felt beneath the weather-beaten Ranger mask she hid behind. Moraelin's breath caught for a moment at the probing look, his face mere inches from her own.
Legolas reached for her hands, and she did not fight him. She tried with every fiber of her being to still them, but Legolas could feel the tremors coursing across her fingers. "What is it? What happened?" he whispered.
Moraelin jerked her hands away and turned from him. "Nothing," she wiped a few drops of blood from her nose with the back of her hand and mumbled, "It's just that-I just-" she closed her eyes, knowing she should go no further, but on a rush of breath confessed, "I hate the way they smell. I feel like it surrounds me, sticks to me, that I can't clean it off. I hate it."
The absurdity of that statement almost brought a grin to Legolas's lips, but he resisted, frowning instead. There was something deeper and older to that than she was letting on. He stood silently, waiting for her to continue, but knowing better than to push her too much.
"Why?" was all he said.
"It does not matter," she shrugged, bending to retrieve the canteen and her large axe where it had fallen from her back in the fighting. She began searching for her dagger, sure to look anywhere but at him. "It is in the past."
She knew such shallow words would not satisfy Legolas, but he just stood there, so infuriatingly patient. Moraelin arranged her weapons on her back, and then went to collect Legolas's arrows.
"Leave them," he ordered, but she continued as if she had not heard. Grunting as she yanked an arrow from her assailant's back, she finally said,
"I suppose if you are so blasted curious, I could give you the short version of the story." She planted a foot on the shoulder of another orc to extract an arrow. Legolas watched the non-committal tilt of her head, the blank stare of her eyes. She was fighting harder to maintain the mask at that moment than any he had seen in the past days.
"Years ago," she began, "the Rangers received word that orcs were in the forest north of Rivendell and Elrond wanted aid. I didn't associate with elves anymore, everyone knew that, but Aldruid talked me into riding with them. When we arrived, a smaller band of orcs had split from the main force, so a handful of Rangers and I went after them, while the others rode on with the twins. Unfortunately for us, the group we tracked was on its way to meet with about fifty more of their kind. We did not stand a chance against such numbers. They killed the Rangers and captured me." Moraelin had reached the dead orc who still had her dagger embedded in his foot. But, she did not reach for it. She just stared down at the orc, her eyes slowly solidifying into orbs of polished black marble as she continued; "I was not cooperative enough for their tastes, so they beat me. The more I fought, the worse they beat me. I hit one of them back. So, they broke my arm and nine of my fingers. I don't know how long I was there, Aldruid could probably tell you, you lose track of time in a situation like that. A few of my ribs got broke, my jaw in a couple of places, I was a mess. The Rangers eventually found me and killed the orcs. Aldruid took me to Rivendell. He saved my life." A smile cracked her face, but the expression seemed almost to pain her, "I thought the worst of it was over, but waiting for my body to heal was terrible too. With my fingers broken, I couldn't even button my own shirt. Elrond and Aldruid had to help with everything. It was humiliating. Even now that I am well again, I still hate the smell of orc. It makes me think of that night, of feeling scared and helpless."
Moraelin kneeled and gripped her dagger, tearing it from the orc's flesh in a violent motion. She wiped the weapon on the grass and stood, "But, as I said, it is in the past and it is high time I moved on."
Moraelin pressed a handful of arrows into Legolas's palm, and reluctantly he took them. She glanced up at Legolas and found him staring at her with an agonized expression, a nearly palpable pain at all she had endured. This brought an immediate scowl to her face, "Do not look at me like that, like you pity me. Do not bother. In your eyes, what happened to me is tragic, but out here, that kind of thing happens every day. What I went through was nothing, and at least I survived. Most are not so lucky. Like the Rangers I watched die that day," she stepped very close to Legolas and the bitter venom of her voice seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of his bones, "But what would you know of such things? What would you know of what it is really like out here? You, who has spent your entire life in the safety of your father's fortress, a prince who could hide behind his father's army? What would you know of hunger, hurt? You pore over maps in a well-furnished throne room as servants bring you refreshments and you call it soldiering, you call it courage. Do not make me laugh."
Moraelin stalked away, throwing up her hands in anger, "But what would any of your kind know of hardship? You sit safe in your protected realms singing and eating and looking back over your long, glorious lives while others must spend their entire lives looking over their shoulder, waiting for the next attack. If elves made even the slightest attempt to use their legendary wisdom and power to help others, do you know what a difference it could make? Do you know how many could benefit? But, no elves care, because no elves venture out of their beautiful havens long enough to see how difficult life is in the wilds."
Legolas tried to control his temper, but with little success. This unexpected attack had brought a fire into his normally calm eyes. He ground out, "I understand what you are saying, Moraelin, but you know that I have left my father's halls. You know full well that I have experienced life in the untamed lands."
"Yes, of course," Moraelin agreed with false sweetness, "You were one of the Nine Walkers. You left Mirkwood once. Once. And you are a hero for it. But, what of those who must face the perils you did every day of their lives? Are songs sang and stories told of them, do they become famous? No. All they get when the day is done is the relief that they did not die that day. You are an elf, and royalty. Do not think to compare yourself to those who truly face difficulties."
"I cannot help who I am," Legolas snapped.
"Neither can I," Moraelin drawled, "But that did not stop your kind from condemning me."
"Will you stop saying 'your kind'? You are an elf too."
"Not in my heart," she replied coldly, "Not anymore."
Legolas found his jaw was clamped so tightly shut in anger and frustration that he could not speak. But, it mattered not, for there was nothing left to say. Both started as a loud crack sounded in the charged air. Legolas looked down at the arrows in his hand and saw he had clenched his fist so tightly one of the wooden shafts had snapped in half. He tossed the ruined arrow aside and turned from her, whistling for Embryn.
Moraelin's choked gasp followed him, "By the Valar . . ." she whispered.
"What," he turned back in annoyance, and found her rushing to him. He watched her, wondering what in Arda was the matter with her. She tore his cloak from his shoulders, and he looked down. The side of his shirt was stained nearly black with blood, it had seeped even into the beautiful Lorien cloak and down half of his pant leg. Moraelin had not seen it until he had turned from her.
"What happened to you?" she asked, glancing up at him. Their argument was forgotten, and her eyes held only deep concern.
"I-I don't know. I was attacked by the ruins, that was why I did not reach you right away. I thought it just nicked me . . . I barely felt it."
Moraelin had rolled the sticky, wet fabric up over his flat stomach and was probing the six-inch wound with careful fingers. Her eyes darkened as she found what she had most feared. Along the wound was a jelly-like substance, an oily black liquid that clung to his skin.
"What is it?" Legolas asked, seeing the clouding of her features though she tried to conceal it from him.
"The wound is not bad, but the weapon was poisoned." She dug a scrap of cloth from her pocket and swabbed a bit of the poison onto it. Taking a careful smell, she frowned, "This poison is extracted from the moonroot plant that grows along the cliffs. It is mixed with a few other nasty toxins and suspended in animal fat. The orcs here use it from time to time."
"So, you have seen it before? You have treated others exposed to it?"
"Yes," Moraelin replied, "One other man."
"What happened to him?" Legolas asked.
"Oh, he had a little fever, but he was all right after a time," Moraelin lied easily. The truth was, despite her best efforts, the man had been dead within three hours. But, she wasn't about to tell Legolas that.
* * * *
To Cara: Thank you for the wonderful review! You are awesome! My roommate is also on my case for not bringing in more romance . . . I'll see what I can do!
Chapter 9: Beneath the Watchtower
As two dejected, soggy riders collected their equally dejected and soggy horses, a sharp wind howled through the canyon. Moraelin's fingers were numbed by the cold and she clumsily fought the straps of Rock's tack.
"Here," a gentle voice came from very close to her ear as Legolas took her hands in his. He set them aside and finished saddling Rock for her as the horse fidgeted unhappily. Moraelin kept her eyes trained to the ground. The scalding heat of his skin still lingered on the back of her hands, which she now clutched tightly together within her cloak. She mumbled an inarticulate thank you and climbed into the saddle. She watched Legolas's broad back as he urged Embryn to the lead and resolved to keep such casual contact to a minimum for the rest of their quest. She could not think straight with him so close and she was going to need to keep a clear mind if she was meant to be a negotiator.
A negotiator. It was preposterous, even to her own ears it seemed some type of feeble joke. She had been a stablehand, a mercenary, and a guide over the years, and most recently fought with the Dunedain. None of these professions required much in the way of communication skills. Maybe if she had been a street vendor or a teacher she would have a way with flowery words. But, a few decades among Rangers who could be silent for days when it suited them had surely dulled her language talents.
But, the Rangers had taught her about listening, about reading what people don't say as easily as what they say. Moraelin could tell just by looking at Legolas that he was impatient to be back in his forest, although he did not want her to know this. She could also tell he was apprehensive. Whether it was her ability to save Talendil he was unsure of, or the reception Moraelin would receive once back in Greenwood, she did not know. Both uncertainties troubled her own mind in equal measure. She simply hoped to do what was asked of her and slip away, return to Dreary Vale and to her life so that Mirkwood could simply forget about her again. Yes, that would surely be best.
The pathetic gray glow of an overcast dawn soon spread across the sky and Legolas fell back, riding beside Moraelin. A few stray snowflakes drifted down from above to settle in the folds of his cloak.
"You have not asked about my mother," Legolas observed.
"Surely she sailed . . . did she not?" Moraelin looked quizzically over at him.
"No, she chose to remain on these shores, though Father and I tried tirelessly to convince her to go."
Moraelin absorbed this news with a thoughtful frown. Legolas cut into her musings, his voice cautious, "Although, your stepmother did leave for the sea quite some time ago, when the spreading darkness became ominous."
Moraelin's face hardened, "I didn't know they were letting trolls into Valinor these days. The standards must be more lax than I had thought, maybe even a mutt like me could get in now."
Legolas shook his head, "Ilianel may not have been the most pleasant she-elf in Mirkwood, but I would not call her a troll."
"I would," she said quickly. She met Legolas's eyes, "Oh, do not give me that look, Legolas. She was not overly fond of me either. To her, I was just some unwanted baggage attached to her trophy husband, she never tried to hide that."
Legolas smiled in resignation, "Well, you will not have to deal with her now."
"That is good, for she would probably be an absolute mess knowing her precious baby was a prisoner of the dwarves. Worthless sniveling woman. Valinor can have her."
Legolas chuckled, shaking his head again, this time in amazement, "After dealing with the bland, boring maidens skulking around the palace, it is good to be around someone who speaks her mind."
"The ladies still buzzing around you like flies on a carcass?"
Legolas scowled, "Nice analogy. But, yes."
Moraelin's over-confident smirk returned, "Poor, poor Legolas."
"Again, something none of those women would dare say to me. You are going to take some getting used to, Moraelin."
They chuckled, argued, and spoke of unimportant things as a cold day settled around them. Miles passed beneath their horses' hooves, the miserable dampness of their clothing persisting in the saturated air.
It was well into the afternoon when Legolas halted, staring ahead with a perplexed expression, "What is that?"
She followed his look, "We have reached the ruins."
"Ruins?" Legolas gazed through the aspen trees, studying the dark mass of stone.
"No one knows much about them," she began, "History is not of great interest to the pig farmers of the vale. As near as I can figure, men of old once used this canyon as a travel corridor. Now, the route is largely unknown except to locals. I'd warrant this was once an outpost. There is a watchtower and a couple of fortified buildings. There used to be more of them near the valley, but the villagers tore them down, carted out the stone and reused it. You might have noticed the large fireplace in the tavern . . . those blocks were from a watchtower."
"Fascinating," he said sincerely.
"You can take a look around if you'd like. We should eat a little and rest the horses anyway."
Legolas nodded in agreement, dismounting. "I'm going to refill the water bags, all right?" Moraelin asked, but she could see he already approached the ruins. She had never known him to be so interested in the history of men. She shrugged and climbed also from her horse, leaving Rocky to graze. "Don't wander too far," she called to the horse as if fully believing he could understand her, "You have our dinner in your saddlebags."
Legolas wove through the trees, drawn forward by an invisible hand. He could see that the weathered stone of the tower had once been masterfully carved. It was ornamented with statues of beasts and warriors, their faces now rubbed away by the ravages of time. The domed top had partially fallen in, and the pillars that had once held it were scattered on the ground. They were carved in the likeness of dragons and some still held the rusted braces where torches had been placed. Even to an elf, the place was ancient, the architecture whispered of a long-gone era of glory. But, as he approached the door to the ruined structure, a cold fear took root in him. Something was wrong. As his blue eyes widened, it occurred to him that if he were a creature of darkness, he would hide from the sunlight in such a place. His awe was quickly replaced with wariness. Something moved in the corner of his vision, but when he spun to face it, there was nothing. He opened his mouth to call for Moraelin, but only a sharp grunt escaped as he felt dull metal tear across his side.
Moraelin bent to fill their canteens, the water icy cold over her hands. Its long journey from the snows of the Misty Mountains had reached its end. She recapped the container, her movements carefully controlled as she sensed eyes upon her. She tilted her head slightly to look over her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. Slowly, her hand went to the small axe at her belt. Before she had a chance to draw the weapon, a dark form shot from the undergrowth and drove her to the ground. Moraelin hit the earth hard, but rolled to the side, coming up atop the mangy orc. She drove a fist into his crooked teeth, and slipped a dagger from her belt. She meant to slit the creature's throat, but her senses screamed of more imminent danger. Moraelin dropped forward and felt the tickle of a breeze over the back of her neck as a dull axe swung just above her. She rolled to the side, trying to jump to her feet, but too late. Another orc drove his foot into her back and she collapsed to the ground, the breath forced from her lungs. Where had they all come from?
Without thought, Moraelin lifted her arm just enough to bury her dagger in the foot of the nearest orc. He howled in pain and she was quickly on her hands and knees. Before she could regain her feet, the largest orc stepped up and kicked her in the face with a heavy, booted foot. Moraelin saw orange stars flash before her vision and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She dropped back to the forest floor, losing the grip on her weapon. "Legolas," she cried weakly, her split lip pouring blood down her chin. Surely he could hear this commotion; where was he?
Moraelin tried to reach for a weapon again, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Just as quickly, an orc gripped her wrist, and though she fought to twist it from his grasp, soon it was forced up behind her, and driven so far up her back she felt her arm begin to pull from its socket. She tried to flail her other arm, flip over, anything. The helplessness, the hopelessness, the stench of orc all around her transported her back to that encampment all those years ago. She could remember them leering at her, feeling a club slam into her right arm and hearing the sickening crack of breaking bone. It was almost as if she could no longer distinguish memories from reality as an orc drove a knee into her back, gathering a fistful of her hair. He jerked her head up and she could feel a spray of spit as he whispered in her ear, "You're ours now, beautiful."
Moraelin saw a flash of metal in the corner of her vision and she struggled further. She could feel a knife press lightly to her neck, "What say you, boys? Kill her now or kill her once we've finished with her?"
"I don't care, she'll be warm for a while yet either way."
The raucous laughter of the orcs filled the air. Moraelin screamed, the rage in her voice enough to chill another creature to the bone, but the orcs only crowed louder with disgusting laughter. Underneath their cackling, a sharp whistle cut through the forest. The crude knife that had been bound for her throat fell harmlessly to the ground before her eyes as the orc dropped dead on top of her. Her eyes slipped shut in relief, hearing the bewildered yelling of their enemies soon cut off by rapid humming of arrows. One last dull thud of a collapsing body, then silence.
Moraelin lay beneath the reeking body, too exhausted to move. She felt it thrown away from her, and gentle hands cupped her shoulders. Moraelin slowly made it to her hands and knees and Legolas helped her turn over and sit down heavily. Around her swollen lips, she scolded, "I had them just where I wanted them, Legolas. Must you come charging in and steal all the glory?" She glanced up at Legolas, seeing a hint of terror lingering in the blue depths of his eyes, but now a slow smile spread across his lips. He released a breath he did not realize he had been holding.
"I'm sorry Moraelin. I'm sorry I did not come to you sooner."
"I told you, Legolas, I was just about ready to take them when you showed up. But, I appreciate the help nonetheless." She began crawling to the stream, but continued, "You know, you're rather handy. I might just keep you around."
"Moraelin, let me take a look at your face," Legolas called, following her.
"I'm all right," she insisted, brushing away his hands and turning to the creek, which was swollen from the night's rain.
"No, you're not," he said, but she barely heard him as she had dunked her head in the water to wash away the blood that covered the lower half of her face. She sat up, but her head swam a little, the world around her dimming. In her confusion, she could swear she saw Aldruid's face, and Elladan standing just behind him. The revolting smell of the orc camp assaulted her nose. Her left eye was swollen shut, and she could see only through a tiny slit of her right eye. She was slumped forward, with not even the strength to lift her head, even when the chaos of battle around her subsided. Suddenly she could sense someone kneeling before her and braced herself for the blow that would surely follow. But, instead, a hand cupped her chin, lifting her face carefully. Despite the gentle grip, she felt the ends of her broken jawbone grate together, the pain exploding through her gut. She moaned weakly and tried to tear her face away. She heard Aldruid gasp the words, "She's alive."
Moraelin shook her head briskly, both to clear away the mist of memories and shake the water from her hair. Legolas flinched away from the spray. Moraelin wiped the blood from her face with the back of a sleeve, rising unsteadily to her feet. But, as she glanced down at her hand, she saw that the shakes had returned. She cursed, and turned away from Legolas, hoping he would not see. But, he was all too aware.
"Moraelin," he said hesitantly, "Let me look at your face."
She turned slowly to him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Legolas ducked his head and began examining her nose and mouth. Her nose was still bleeding a little, but quick inspection told him it was not broken. Her top and bottom lip were both split open, and the left side of her jaw was beginning to swell. Underneath the bright crimson of her blood, her lips had gone white, he could only assume from fear. After a while, Moraelin looked up to find that he was no longer studying her injuries, but now searched her eyes, as if trying to catch a glimpse of what Moraelin felt beneath the weather-beaten Ranger mask she hid behind. Moraelin's breath caught for a moment at the probing look, his face mere inches from her own.
Legolas reached for her hands, and she did not fight him. She tried with every fiber of her being to still them, but Legolas could feel the tremors coursing across her fingers. "What is it? What happened?" he whispered.
Moraelin jerked her hands away and turned from him. "Nothing," she wiped a few drops of blood from her nose with the back of her hand and mumbled, "It's just that-I just-" she closed her eyes, knowing she should go no further, but on a rush of breath confessed, "I hate the way they smell. I feel like it surrounds me, sticks to me, that I can't clean it off. I hate it."
The absurdity of that statement almost brought a grin to Legolas's lips, but he resisted, frowning instead. There was something deeper and older to that than she was letting on. He stood silently, waiting for her to continue, but knowing better than to push her too much.
"Why?" was all he said.
"It does not matter," she shrugged, bending to retrieve the canteen and her large axe where it had fallen from her back in the fighting. She began searching for her dagger, sure to look anywhere but at him. "It is in the past."
She knew such shallow words would not satisfy Legolas, but he just stood there, so infuriatingly patient. Moraelin arranged her weapons on her back, and then went to collect Legolas's arrows.
"Leave them," he ordered, but she continued as if she had not heard. Grunting as she yanked an arrow from her assailant's back, she finally said,
"I suppose if you are so blasted curious, I could give you the short version of the story." She planted a foot on the shoulder of another orc to extract an arrow. Legolas watched the non-committal tilt of her head, the blank stare of her eyes. She was fighting harder to maintain the mask at that moment than any he had seen in the past days.
"Years ago," she began, "the Rangers received word that orcs were in the forest north of Rivendell and Elrond wanted aid. I didn't associate with elves anymore, everyone knew that, but Aldruid talked me into riding with them. When we arrived, a smaller band of orcs had split from the main force, so a handful of Rangers and I went after them, while the others rode on with the twins. Unfortunately for us, the group we tracked was on its way to meet with about fifty more of their kind. We did not stand a chance against such numbers. They killed the Rangers and captured me." Moraelin had reached the dead orc who still had her dagger embedded in his foot. But, she did not reach for it. She just stared down at the orc, her eyes slowly solidifying into orbs of polished black marble as she continued; "I was not cooperative enough for their tastes, so they beat me. The more I fought, the worse they beat me. I hit one of them back. So, they broke my arm and nine of my fingers. I don't know how long I was there, Aldruid could probably tell you, you lose track of time in a situation like that. A few of my ribs got broke, my jaw in a couple of places, I was a mess. The Rangers eventually found me and killed the orcs. Aldruid took me to Rivendell. He saved my life." A smile cracked her face, but the expression seemed almost to pain her, "I thought the worst of it was over, but waiting for my body to heal was terrible too. With my fingers broken, I couldn't even button my own shirt. Elrond and Aldruid had to help with everything. It was humiliating. Even now that I am well again, I still hate the smell of orc. It makes me think of that night, of feeling scared and helpless."
Moraelin kneeled and gripped her dagger, tearing it from the orc's flesh in a violent motion. She wiped the weapon on the grass and stood, "But, as I said, it is in the past and it is high time I moved on."
Moraelin pressed a handful of arrows into Legolas's palm, and reluctantly he took them. She glanced up at Legolas and found him staring at her with an agonized expression, a nearly palpable pain at all she had endured. This brought an immediate scowl to her face, "Do not look at me like that, like you pity me. Do not bother. In your eyes, what happened to me is tragic, but out here, that kind of thing happens every day. What I went through was nothing, and at least I survived. Most are not so lucky. Like the Rangers I watched die that day," she stepped very close to Legolas and the bitter venom of her voice seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of his bones, "But what would you know of such things? What would you know of what it is really like out here? You, who has spent your entire life in the safety of your father's fortress, a prince who could hide behind his father's army? What would you know of hunger, hurt? You pore over maps in a well-furnished throne room as servants bring you refreshments and you call it soldiering, you call it courage. Do not make me laugh."
Moraelin stalked away, throwing up her hands in anger, "But what would any of your kind know of hardship? You sit safe in your protected realms singing and eating and looking back over your long, glorious lives while others must spend their entire lives looking over their shoulder, waiting for the next attack. If elves made even the slightest attempt to use their legendary wisdom and power to help others, do you know what a difference it could make? Do you know how many could benefit? But, no elves care, because no elves venture out of their beautiful havens long enough to see how difficult life is in the wilds."
Legolas tried to control his temper, but with little success. This unexpected attack had brought a fire into his normally calm eyes. He ground out, "I understand what you are saying, Moraelin, but you know that I have left my father's halls. You know full well that I have experienced life in the untamed lands."
"Yes, of course," Moraelin agreed with false sweetness, "You were one of the Nine Walkers. You left Mirkwood once. Once. And you are a hero for it. But, what of those who must face the perils you did every day of their lives? Are songs sang and stories told of them, do they become famous? No. All they get when the day is done is the relief that they did not die that day. You are an elf, and royalty. Do not think to compare yourself to those who truly face difficulties."
"I cannot help who I am," Legolas snapped.
"Neither can I," Moraelin drawled, "But that did not stop your kind from condemning me."
"Will you stop saying 'your kind'? You are an elf too."
"Not in my heart," she replied coldly, "Not anymore."
Legolas found his jaw was clamped so tightly shut in anger and frustration that he could not speak. But, it mattered not, for there was nothing left to say. Both started as a loud crack sounded in the charged air. Legolas looked down at the arrows in his hand and saw he had clenched his fist so tightly one of the wooden shafts had snapped in half. He tossed the ruined arrow aside and turned from her, whistling for Embryn.
Moraelin's choked gasp followed him, "By the Valar . . ." she whispered.
"What," he turned back in annoyance, and found her rushing to him. He watched her, wondering what in Arda was the matter with her. She tore his cloak from his shoulders, and he looked down. The side of his shirt was stained nearly black with blood, it had seeped even into the beautiful Lorien cloak and down half of his pant leg. Moraelin had not seen it until he had turned from her.
"What happened to you?" she asked, glancing up at him. Their argument was forgotten, and her eyes held only deep concern.
"I-I don't know. I was attacked by the ruins, that was why I did not reach you right away. I thought it just nicked me . . . I barely felt it."
Moraelin had rolled the sticky, wet fabric up over his flat stomach and was probing the six-inch wound with careful fingers. Her eyes darkened as she found what she had most feared. Along the wound was a jelly-like substance, an oily black liquid that clung to his skin.
"What is it?" Legolas asked, seeing the clouding of her features though she tried to conceal it from him.
"The wound is not bad, but the weapon was poisoned." She dug a scrap of cloth from her pocket and swabbed a bit of the poison onto it. Taking a careful smell, she frowned, "This poison is extracted from the moonroot plant that grows along the cliffs. It is mixed with a few other nasty toxins and suspended in animal fat. The orcs here use it from time to time."
"So, you have seen it before? You have treated others exposed to it?"
"Yes," Moraelin replied, "One other man."
"What happened to him?" Legolas asked.
"Oh, he had a little fever, but he was all right after a time," Moraelin lied easily. The truth was, despite her best efforts, the man had been dead within three hours. But, she wasn't about to tell Legolas that.
* * * *
To Cara: Thank you for the wonderful review! You are awesome! My roommate is also on my case for not bringing in more romance . . . I'll see what I can do!
