Part III caused me the most problems with this fic – I rewrote the whole thing at least twice – but here it is, and I hope you enjoy.

Translations are at the end. My thanks for reading!

The Days of the King

Part III – The Battles we Fight

Shadows layered thickly upon the ceiling stones to cloak the room with deep night, darkness twisting with liquid fluidity between cracks in the masonry. Moonbeams spilled through open balcony doors to pool silver-clear on the flagstones, liquid light flowing molten-bright across the floor. Above Minas Tirith, Ithil hung low and full, a pearl plucked from deep velvet skies. The citadel was silent; most everyone slept.

Legolas did not.

He had been attempting to walk the dream-paths since sundown, but each time his eyes began to glaze and the shadows began to slip from his vision, a fresh spray of salt crested his fae, and he returned to the waking world for fear of drifting too far into his mind. Elvish sleep blended living night with deep dream; this was a difficult balance to weigh when the dreams were as deep as a boundless ocean and echoed with the cries of gulls.

It had been three long nights since Legolas had last found rest.

The previous day had been the first since Elessar's coronation, and Legolas had spent much of it both avoiding and seeking company. The seeking of company had been easy; Elladan had, predictably, been in the Houses of Healing, and had examined Legolas' elbow quickly enough before declaring him fit for return to full duties.

Avoiding company had been somewhat more difficult. Whilst the majority of the city's population had sequestered themselves away from daylight and civilisation to nurse the aftereffects of the previous night's celebrations, his father's ministers had seemed unfortunately immune to the aftereffects of Elessar's alcohol. Legolas could not say he was overly surprised; he had grown up in Mirkwood, where celebrations lasted for weeks and the finest Dorwinion was left to age for significantly longer. He would have been surprised if any elf from his father's realm could get drunk off human alcohol. Still, he had hoped.

It had not worked; the ministers had cornered him anyway. Legolas' seven months galivanting across Arda and neatly avoiding his paperwork had apparently resulted in something of an administration backlog. Whilst his Lieutenant had dealt with matters of urgent import, the Elvenking had kindly thought to save the more tedious reports for Legolas' return to polite civilisation. Legolas had not been particularly impressed with this display of generosity.

The upside of the day's meetings and paperwork was that he had been able to avoid Gimli in all his hungover ire. You could not speed a passing storm, Legolas had found, or fetch a lagging sun. Some things (such as the ill temperaments of hungover dwarves) were best left to pass alone.

Nevertheless, by the time the Minister of Trade had taken his leave just after the evening meal, Legolas' thoughts had fogged with weariness. He had laid on the bed, slowed his breath, and gazed at the swirling shadows above him. He tried not to think of how they lapped as waves on the shore of the ceiling, or how his fae pulled with every breath, caught by promises of swift currents and magnetic tides.

"We are warriors," the Lord Glorfindel had said the previous night, and the torchlight had lit up his golden hair so he appeared as noble and fierce as in the songs. "We see battle in everything." Legolas only distantly remembered wandering on sunlit dream-paths fresh with the smell of recent rain, at a time when the Sea was only an echo of salt-spray upon a silver shore. He wondered how he could see the future as anything but a battle, when the Sea edged his every moment, questioned his every thought, and rocked his every move.

Legolas eyed the ceiling a moment longer before huffing and rising from the bed. He pulled on his boots and grabbed his blade holsters, vambraces and waterskin as he made for the door. If he were fated to fight, he could at least ensure he fought well. He had a healer's pass and six weeks of inactivity to account for. The dream-paths could wait a little longer.

o-O-o

Legolas emerged from the foot of the White Tower at the Courtyard entrance. The citadel glowed silver-bright, the White Tree bleached brittle with reflected moonlight where it rose up ahead of him between columns of covered walkways run through by inky shadow. The night was still, and silent.

Legolas stepped into the courtyard, and the tinkling of bells echoed through the night. He backed into the shadow of an archway, legs tensed and ears alert, tightening his grip on the hilt of a knife as he scanned the area. Nothing moved. The city was still. The cry of a gull echoed faintly. Legolas waited another moment, then shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and continued towards the barracks.

He made it to the topmost training field without another incident and vaulted the gate with ease, dropping his waterskin on a low bench by the perimeter wall and lacing the strings of his vambrace with one hand as he reached up with the other to flip the sign by the entrance so it read 'blades'.

He tied off his vambrace and stood for a moment in the cool air, breathing in the deep stillness of the night. He longed for his bow, for its carven wood and taut sting, for the rush of adrenaline and the high whine of an arrow mid-flight. He longed for his blades, for sharp flashes and clean flows, to spin and leap and dance along a knife-edge. Mostly, he longed to fight, until his muscles ached and his chest heaved and his fae sang of something other than the Sea.

Legolas moved to the centre of the field. It was large, and he was alone, and the night was still with silver moonlight. He spun once, and the thin cotton of his undershirt billowed with the motion. He smiled at the freedom of movement and spun again, thanking the stars he was not expected to wear formal silks more often. High collars and heavy robes were for scholars and Kings, not Silvan warriors. Legolas was here to train.

He closed his eyes to centre his fae. The ring of gull cries and bells echoed faintly in his ears, and water spilled foam-grey upon the banks of his mind. He took a deep breath and let it out with a roll of waves, opening his eyes and unsheathing his knives. Ferns of golden filigree curled and gleamed as he examined the blades, turning them in his palms as he weighted their familiar ivory-smooth and mithril-sharp lethality. Their handles were cool to touch.

Legolas fixed his gaze in the middle distance over the city wall and spun his blades a few times over his wrists, the movements slow and precise as he refamiliarised himself with the patterns of his exercises after weeks of inactivity. The motions came instinctively, as he had known they would, and he sped up the movements until the mithril was only a passing flare of reflected moonlight upon his wrist, before slowing his blades and starting again.

After several cycles of this exercise Legolas' arms were beginning to warm and his mind was shifting to a more familiar place than where it had been for the past few days. He stilled his movements and flexed his left elbow to check for lingering weakness. There was none. Satisfied, he firmed his stance, readied his knives, and flipped them. Hilt passed over blade over hilt, over blade over hilt, over blade over hilt, over─

"The war is fought, yet the soldier still fights," said a deep voice from behind him. Legolas caught his blades and turned back to the gate of the training fields where the King of Rohan stood, his forearms resting on the painted metal. He wore a woollen tunic of dark green over what appeared to be his nightclothes. "I had not thought to come across another for whom sleep was so evasive."

Legolas inclined his head in greeting, eyeing Éomer as he did. He flipped his blade again and caught it. "I have no need of mortal rest," he said.

"A pity," said Éomer. "It can be a good escape, at times." He straightened his posture and made his way over, and his footsteps echoed loud and sure through the night. "I heard you took injury at the Black Gate, Master Elf."

Legolas tilted his head to consider the man and licked the taste of salt from his lips. "It was minor," he said, after a length. "A broken elbow." He flipped his blade and caught it. The mithril flashed silver-sharp in the moonlight. "I am healed."

Éomer nodded. "You are fortunate then. Such a wound would have shelved a man for months."

Legolas eyed the Horse-lord. They had returned from the Morannon five weeks ago, and he had taken his injury a week before that. "It has been months," he said.

"Aye, and it would have been many more."

They stood there in silence a moment whilst Legolas considered the man. Éomer's main weapon was the longsword and his greatest asset was his strength of arm, but Legolas fought in a distinctly Silvan style, centred around agility and dexterity in enclosed spaces with numerous obstacles. Though Legolas had aimed to spend the night re-familiarising himself with his knife-work, he suspected his usual fighting style would be ill-suited to an empty field and a warrior who, however distinguished in combat, had never before crossed blades with a wood-elf.

Legolas nodded, spinning his knives and sheathing them in one fluid motion. "Spar with me," he said, unbuckling his holster and making his way to a rack of practice swords at the end of the field.

Éomer frowned as he fell into step next to him. "Aye, I came to train. Will you not require your blades?"

"Against you? I would try the sword," said Legolas. "I have no need of a longer reach in the forest, but it would have been useful on Pelennor and at the Morannon."

"You have fought with a sword before?" asked Éomer dubiously, binding his fair hair with a leather strip.

Legolas shrugged. "Some." He lifted a weapon from the rack. It was heavier than his knives and the balance was slightly off, but he had three thousand years of combat experience and six weeks of restless energy to burn. It would do. Éomer picked his own blade, and they returned to the middle of the field. Legolas flexed his elbow and rolled his shoulders and looked Éomer in the eye.

"My father is the best swordsman in Arda," he said.

Éomer grinned fiercely and came at him with a strong cry and a swinging blow.

o-O-o

Éomer sat heavily on the bench to catch his breath and drink deeply from his waterskin. Legolas perched next to him and absent-mindedly traced the ivory ferns inlaid into his knife handles. His limbs were warm, and his mind was clear. It was a good feeling.

"I have little experience with elven combat," said Éomer, when he had regained his breath somewhat, "but amid men you fight fiercely indeed, and I have heard that your kind are resistant to mortal hurts. How did you take injury?"

A gull's cry carried on the wind and a rush of seafoam drenched his fae. Legolas thought of screaming orcs and singing bows and one brief moment of distraction and smiled. "In battle," he said.

Éomer rolled his eyes and took another drink. "I have also heard that elves are unable to give a straight answer. I had thought the dwarf was exaggerating, but I see now this is not the case."

Legolas wondered what else Gimli had told Éomer from the depths of his cups the night before. The Horse-lord appeared no worse for wear after his celebrations (indeed, he was up and training through the small hours), but Gimli's tongue could get decidedly loose after a few ales, and some things Legolas preferred to keep private.

"An orc came up behind me," he said. "I elbowed it."

Éomer smiled grimly. "Aye, that would do it," he said. "Let me guess; the orc came out worse off?"

"I wouldn't know," said Legolas. "The ring was destroyed, and the ground opened. The orc fell." He paused and tilted his head. "So, after all that, Gimli claims it does not count towards my tally."

Éomer laughed, and the sound rang boldly through the empty field. "Aye, your competition," he said. "The dwarf informed me loudly and repeatedly of his sure victory last night."

Legolas idly traced a gilded fern. "I am the victor," he said mildly. "Gimli does not count the Mûmakil."

"The Mûmakil?"

Legolas frowned lightly and tapped a finger on the hilt of his knife. Eight months in the company of mortals had taught him much, but in moments such as this his limited understanding of their cultures became frustratingly apparent. "I do not know the Common word… they are large, with tusks."

Éomer nodded, and hair and shadow masked his face. "Aye," he said, voice low with an unexpectedly grim weight. "I know. Oliphaunts, we call them. They have cost us many a noble steed."

Silence hung in still air, and Legolas wondered what else the war had cost them, and for how long their victory would continue to claim. He had left Imladris prepared to sacrifice his life for those he loved, but now, in the aftermath of the battle and the privacy of the night, that price seemed steeper than he had initially realised.

"This is winning," the Lord Glorfindel had said. "To whom do you say farewell?" Legolas was not sure. He felt disorientated, off-kilter, as if everything were changing so fast, so suddenly, that goodbyes were appropriate. His fae pulled him both West with the promise of his mother and kin over the Sea, and East with the memory his father and kin and mortal friends in Arda. His mind was both lifted with the promise of the future, and weighed with the memory of the past. Elves lived in the present, moment by moment, star by star, but Legolas could not settle into the present knowing that whichever choice he made would echo with the loss of the other. There did not seem to be an outcome which did not result in farewell.

"I ride in the morn," said Éomer, after a length. "Across the Pelennor, just for a few hours. Do not tell the Lord Aragorn, but I am not so fond of his white city of Sea-Kings. Too long has it been since I sat in a saddle." His eyes were deep and dark with something close to understanding. "You are welcome to ride with us, if you require that escape."

"Thank you, Éomer-King," said Legolas softly, "but there are duties I must attend."

Éomer sighed and stood, picking up his waterskin. "You are not bad with a sword, Master Elf," he said. "Continue to train, if you will, but some of us require mortal sleep, so I will bid you farewell, and goodnight."

He left, and Legolas sat in the pooling moonlight as the gull cries eddied on the wind.

Translations:

Ithil = Sindarin name for the moon