Non-con warning for this chapter
Someone who is not ready to die for his duty, has no place in battle.
For the umpteenth time, the harsh lecture resounded in Legolas' memory. Each time, the words seemed to carry more sheer scorn. For once, he should maybe have listened to his father.
Everything had felt so natural when he had been sent to Imladris to contritely admit to Lord Elrond that Gollum had escaped, in spite of all the precautions taken by his father, him and the Woodland Elves of Mirkwood. Thranduil had given him hope for the future back then; and Aragorn's encouragements before the Council of Elrond had kept him from hesitating about joining the Fellowship of the Ring for even a second. Now he wished he would have heeded his father's warnings instead that in this last conversation with him Legolas had so easily ignored. He should indeed have rode back to Mirkwood after the Council.
Or he could have stayed in Imladris, with Arwen, to support her in this difficult time. There would have been enough left there to fight for him, too.
He could even have gone to Lórien, to the elf he wanted by his side most of all, although that would probably have provoked the anger of his whole realm. Whatever his father's true opinion about his betrothal was, how much or not he even really knew about it, no matter what Thranduil had to say about the matter: At war, there was no time for change, as Thranduil liked to put it. There would at least have been another, very personal conflict to settle if Legolas wouldn't wait for the dynamics between the two realms to change as he so much desired to do. Or maybe not. Maybe Tarisilya and him would have just sailed into the west to leave everything behind, including their ancestry. Everything would be better than keeping on bearing the darkness.
Instead, Legolas went to war for foreign countries, foreign folks, and had to watch children die. He suddenly realized that he never wanted to return to Helm's Deep. What difference did it make if he gave up now? That his attempt to support Men was completely useless, had been shown to him quite clearly today. One bow didn't make a difference when confronted with a superior enemy. Not even hundreds of elven bows had made a difference. Yes, Legolas had originally thought, he could contribute something to save Middle-earth when he had followed Aragorn's example, and that this quest was indeed worth risking his life.
Only his death wouldn't make sense at all. On the contrary. It would only hurt the ones he loved. His father, in spite of all their arguing. His friends at home. Arwen. And especially the one elf to whom he'd promised eternity. When they would meet again if something happened to him now, in which form, how it would be then, who could really say that?
And for what? What was a bitter triumph like today's worth? Sauron would strike back. Eventually, the realms of the Free Folk, and of the Firstborn as well, would fall.
Hearing Gimli's cheerful laughter in his mind abruptly interrupted the depressing reflection. As did the memory of Aragorn's worried expression earlier. The childlike round faces of the Hobbits who didn't even get asked if they could still go on, who just kept on making their way to Mordor, more courageous and selfless than many men.
Maybe there wasn't a reason for Legolas himself to stay here, but he couldn't desert his friends. Tiredly rubbing his forehead, he tried to suppress both his anger and self-doubt. He had made his decision back then, for better or for worse. Now there was no way back.
Realistically speaking, he had nowhere to go anyway, that was wishful thinking. The road to Imladris was too long and too dangerous to take alone. The enemy knew his face by now. Tarisilya was already gone as he desperately hoped, in safety, in a realm of eternal peace and happiness. His father was busy enough countering attacks on his own realm. If Legolas succumbed to an orc blade here or in Mirkwood, probably wouldn't make ...
Arod suddenly pranced and bristled unwillingly, as if he could hear his rider's cowardly musings and wanted to protest.
Legolas patted his neck with a sad smile. "Don't worry, mellon. Not enough has happened to give up."
But a few whispered Sindarin words and Legolas' gentle voice today couldn't calm the stallion. He grew ever more nervous.
Alarmed, Legolas straightened up and looked around, reaching for an arrow out of habit alone. He wasn't sharing Aragorn's overanxiousness about the odd enemy lurking close by but …
"Enough exercise for one day." He was feeling jittery after a way too long night, that was all. As much as he'd longed for silence earlier, this one was a bit too deafening. It provoked too many thoughts about death. Death of orcs and Uruk-hai, sure, who without a doubt deserved to die, but of Men also, who had simply been seduced by foul voices, the way it could happened to every Rohir, to every Gondorian just as well. Maybe celebrating with the others to forget about all that at least for a while, wasn't such a bad idea after all.
A little rougher than necessary, Legolas pulled Arod's reins to get him to turn whereupon the animal bolted in protest. After an admonishing tap of his heels on Arod's sides, the stallion started to trot. The well-known whistling sound of an arrow, a noise so quiet that only elven ears already noticed it from a distance, promptly made Legolas realize how distracted for a few minutes he'd really been.
And now it was too late to flee. He hectically leaned aside, sensing already that he wouldn't make it quickly enough to duck. Before he had even finished the thought, he lost balance because something tore into his right shoulder like an angry predator, and the violent twitch of his body had Arod bolt one more time. Compromised for a split second from the sickening pain, he made the wrong decision instead of the right one and slipped to the ground to clumsily roll away. It was an instinctive move more than anything, to avoid getting tangled in the saddlery that was so unfamiliar for an elf which could have caused the horse to trip and fall with him.
Before Legolas could get up and try to calm Arod down, the stallion reared in fear and ran off, when more arrows closely buzzed his body by.
Which meant, Legolas had just set a new record of making stupid mistakes in combat situations today.
A rude curse in the language of his people on his lips, he tediously pushed himself up on his left arm. Blood poured over the right one and his back, much of it, as he realized immediately. But he couldn't care about that right now. In spite of the agony, he managed to stand up somehow and unsheathed one of his daggers, ready to face a next attack doubtlessly right upon him. As quickly as possible, he tried to reach the protection of the next cluster of trees.
His legs didn't carry him farther than a few feet before the throbbing burn of the arrowhead in his flesh and quickly growing dizziness brought him to his knees again. Poison, of course, the poison clinging to most of Mordor's weapons … His dagger fell from his hand as he reached back, his sight blurring already. He had to get this thing out of his body, right now …
His strength failed him before he could try. Legolas fell forward when the veil before his eyes became thicker. More arrows that he would helplessly be exposed to, never came. Either the enemy, whoever it was, had run out of ammunition – or they didn't even plan to kill him. Not yet.
Legolas fell unconscious before he could finish the terrifying thought.
"Ilya!" Frightened, Tegiend bent to his twin sister when she screamed and slumped over, out of nowhere, slipping to the side in the middle of a trot. She managed just barely to hold on to the saddle, stopping the fall that would have had her under Manyala's hard hooves. Harshly gripping the reins, which earned him a rightful bite from the mare, Tegiend signaled it to stop. "Stand! What is it? What do you feel?"
Unlike him, Tarisilya had not inherited their mother's mental abilities. But in the last centuries, she'd gradually developed the not only pleasant gift of seeing people close to her in her mind. One that had mostly skipped him in return. When one of her loved ones was in great danger, Tarisilya in the past had felt that more than once. She had never before seemed to be in physical pain from it though. Could it be that bad this time?
What if their father …? But Vandrin had sailed into the west already, he should long be safe from the terrors of war, waiting for them in Valinor. What if something had happened to him on the way?
Tegiend felt himself growing angry once again, seriously angry. He had known this would happen! He should have accompanied Vandrin instead of taking care of his stubborn sister for months, out of some stupid sense of responsibility …
When Tarisilya turned her head, her big green brown eyes lowered with guilt, whispering a noiseless word, he let go of her shoulder immediately, with tight lips. The relief that this wasn't about their father, had a bitter aftertaste. "Not again."
"I'm sorry …" The open rejection drained Tarisilya of her last strength to sit straight. She slid down to the floor and immediately sank onto the ground, her legs refusing to carry her. Hugging her knees, she quietly cried away. The moss, damp from the the last days' rain, soaked the thick, resistant fabric of her traveling gown, but she didn't even seem to feel it. "It's only because of me that we had to dwell on Middle-earth for so long. I wish I could change that, just wipe my feelings away, like the rain washes the dirt from the lands. Can't you see that? This is tearing me apart!"
"What's wrong with him this time?" Tegiend shouldn't even care. He should use the time while his sister was collapsing once more, to eat something, to gather his strength. He wasn't too happy about an additional break, but they'd left the most dangerous areas behind a few hours ago. And this steep clearing at the foot of the mountains, partly shielded them from unfriendly looks from the outside. The firs would suffice as a cover until they could continue on their way to the grey ship that would take them away from here. Away from the war, away from death and away from the few elves who were still foolish enough to stay.
Also away from a certain elf who kept Tarisilya prisoner with her love for him. Who had gone to war with the Free Folks, out of a misunderstood sense of obligation, pride and combativeness.
And not only as part of a last despaired alliance in Rohan, like some of their people, including some of Tegiend's former marchwarden mates. An alliance that had probably made many soldiers pay the highest price possible for their compassion already. Among them, if Tegiend was very unlucky, his former captain who also happened to be his closest friend for centuries.
After this foreseeable catastrophe, the other Firstborn in the last elven realms would hopefully know better than to strive for such alleged heroic deeds. This was not their battle.
Legolas though … Legolas had already been exposing Tarisilya to pain for months, whenever his reckless behavior exacted its toll once more. Since the war had started, Tarisilya's gift had shown her all the dangers the Fellowship of the Ring was facing countless times. Today, it seemed to be particularly serious, bad enough to have Tarisilya hide her face in her hands instead of answering.
Yes, Tegiend should have stopped caring long ago, but despite everything, he loved his sister too much for that. Which was why he pulled her to her feet and held her close until her tremble subsided. Their journey was far from over. He needed to make sure, her condition wouldn't turn worse than it already was, or she would possibly not even live to see the arrival. "Come, Ilya. It's alright; the horses can use some rest anyway."
That of course was a blatant lie that his stallion immediately commented on with an offended bristle. But Tarisilya just nodded absent-mindedly and allowed him to lead her to a big rock nearby, dropping down on it as if someone had crushed her knee joints.
Another hour more in the ruins of these once so fertile lands made no difference at this point.
"Did he get himself into trouble again?" Tegiend finally asked when Tarisilya kept silent.
"This time it's different." His caress on her hair couldn't comfort her, she hardly even felt it. "He's dying. I saw it …" She raised her left hand where she was wearing a silver ring for nearly 20 years now. The jewel was surrounded by a strange red light, a conformation that she didn't even need anymore.
When Lady Galadriel had given her this, she had warned Tarisilya already that she would suffer if she decided to put it on. That from now on, she wouldn't only vaguely sense but but know without a doubt, and feel it as well, when the one she loved was injured. The ring wasn't glowing for the first time since that day, but it never had so intensively.
And never before had Tarisilya felt this icy coldness in her soul that could only mean death.
"Of course he is," Tegiend replied grimly. "Just like every elf who refuses to follow the call of the Valar. Probably you should see that positive even. At least you'll see him again soon in the west then, and you'll be rid of his father then too."
"How can you say that?" Shocked, Tarisilya backed away from him. "What right do we have to judge those who still have hope?"
"And where is this hope taking him?" With tears in his eyes, Tegiend grabbed her lower arms, as if he could shake this curse out of her if he tried hard enough. This spell that she had been under for nearly a thousand years now. "The battle at Helm's Deep won't be the last, Ilya! And whatever you felt, whatever happened there, won't stop. He'll always keep on hurting you, somehow or other. If he gave you reason at least to wait for his return! But ever since your betrothal, I have to watch him destroy you more than ever, because he still doesn't have the guts to stand by you. You think that's easy for me? I would have cut this heart out with my own sword already, if that didn't mean losing you forever."
Tarisilya knew of course that Tegiend was exaggerating – not by much though – and just sadly shook her head. "He can't be blamed any more for the feelings binding us than me. You can't hold that against him."
"I don't blame Legolas for loving you, Ilya. Only for denying himself this love, just to please his father, and thereby ruining our whole family." Tegiend seemed to think they had wasted enough time; he mounted his horse again. It took some effort to rein in Matis who obviously wanted to leave Rohan just as quickly as his owner. With a brief gesture of his hand, he prompted Tarisilya to follow his example.
No, it hadn't been an easy decision to leave Lórien now of all times, or to pass so closely by to Isengard. So far, they fortunately had been able to travel most of the way with the soldiers who had gone to help the Rohirrim. Lady Galadriel had still been very reluctant to let them leave, and her worries were more than justified. They needed to leave these lands behind as quickly as possible, that much was definitely true.
After saying good-bye to the others, they were too exposed in this area. And that wasn't the only reason why leaving the group had been hard, in spite of everything that had happened. Tegiend had especially hated to watch Haldir ride to Helm's Deep. But in the end, his urge to leave Middle-earth had outmatched the wish to support his comrades. Now it was up to him to take care of Tarisilya alone, just like their father had asked him back then. After serving the marchwardens for so long, he had no problem slaying a few orcs, but they shouldn't challenge their luck.
In such a tense situation, Tarisilya should better not hope for a blessing that he just couldn't give her. And yet she couldn't stop trying. "Once his destiny here is fulfilled, he will follow us to Valinor and acknowledge our relationship …"
"You seriously still believe that?" Tegiend raised his hands in helpless resignation. "He will never be able to part from this world, Ilya. And he can never break with his father by marrying a daughter of Lórien. He's not your destiny. Your destiny is that ship waiting by Mithlond."
"No." She only whispered it but once pronounced, the little word suddenly carried a lot more weight than the ongoing doubts about her decision to leave Middle-earth that Tegiend had to know all about.
"No!" she suddenly screamed at him. "I'm staying!" Her energy returning, she got on Manyala's back and hastily started to head for the direction where she supposed Legolas to be now, but Tegiend's pained voice stopped her.
"So this is how it ends? You give up everything, even me?"
Sobbing, Tarisilya bent down over Manyala's neck again. Her inability to finally choose one of these two paths, all but crushed her chest. "I don't want to lose you … And I can't lose him either …"
Tegiend hesitated. For many long moments, none of them spoke.
Finally, he got Matis going, stopping next to Tarisilya's mare to pull her up. Gently grabbing her chin, he forced her to look him in the eye. "How bad is it?"
"They're hurting him," Tarisilya whispered, choked. "I can feel it, like a thousand blades stabbing me. His body, his soul … I'm afraid he could give up. If in that condition, he ... He wouldn't recover from that for eternities, Tegiend. I have to help him before his mind will be lost, but he's too far away."
Tegiend tenderly touched her forehead and her temple. "Then talk to him. I'll help. I love you more than my life, Ilya, so I overcome my hate to spare you the pain of this loss. In return I only ask you for one thing."
"I'll talk to him." Tarisilya gratefully kissed his hand. "I'll ride to him as soon as I have stabilized his heart. It's not that much of a detour. Wait in the protection of the woods for me. No matter my decision, I'll come back to tell you first."
Tegiend put her off impatiently. He probably wouldn't allow Tarisilya to ride through half of Rohan alone.
Unlike him or her best friend Arwen, she had never learned how to fight, for the reason alone she'd been told all her life, that taking a life could damage healing abilities. But they could talk about that later. Something else definitely took priority right now.
"Le melin. Just remember that." Putting his other hand on her face as well, he used the deep connection of their souls to give Tarisilya's mind strength. To enable her to talk to the one elf of all people, whom he blamed for dragging her heart into darkness.
No matter how this new crisis would end, Tarisilya would never forget that selflessness.
"An elf off his guard. What a rare catch." As much confidence as he had, Karas wouldn't have trusted himself with such an excellent shot. Once they reached the spot where their victim had fallen, he took his sweet time walking around the elf a few times, ignoring Merenc's noticeably impatience. Finally, he took the elf's bow and quiver from him and carelessly threw both out of reach.
Only when the silhouette splayed on the ground seemed to wake, so quickly suddenly that the elf tried to sit up already and reached for a dagger in the grass with his healthy arm, Karas started to move.
"I don't think so." With all of his considerable strength, he kicked the elf in his back, right between his shoulder blades, so he tumbled back onto the grass with a suppressed scream.
The overwhelming feeling of power, the satisfaction of being able to hurt one of these vain bastards almost distracted Karas too much. He failed to see that the elf had reached his for his dagger again even while falling, and gotten hold of it this time. Only thanks to Merenc's warning shout, he jumped away before the blade could cut off a left leg that was scarred from the battle already.
Again, his enemy nearly made it to get up, which was actually amazing, given his condition. Karas could see horror flare in his eyes when his right arm hung numbly by his side, the muscles ignoring all commands.
Understanding immediately, he grinned broadly. This was one of the pointy-eared bastards who had helped win the battle with their bows from the walls of Helm's Deep. Well, this one would never shoot an arrow again. Karas decided that he wouldn't kill him after all. He would shamelessly exploit that the poison from that orc weapon weakened the elf's body so much that he could hardly put up resistance, yes. He would play with him for a while, and rob him of the glamour that elves were so famous for. But he would let him live. Everything else would be way too merciful.
He kicked his victim again, this time aiming for his wrist. As much strength as he used, not more than a quiet, harmless crack could be heard when the dagger was dropped on the muddy ground again, quickly booted out of reach by Merenc. Elven bones didn't break so easily. That allegedly was what made torturing these people so much fun. They endured much more than mere men or women, and with intact sanity to the end no less.
"That's exactly what happens when you're careless," Karas admonished his younger mate. "Never give that scum the chance for such an attack. And to keep our new friend here from getting any more stupid ideas …" He took an old piece of rope from his belt, enjoying the already fever-darkened look on the elf's face that contained a clear hint of fear now. "Hold him down."
Grabbing the rope harder, he turned to Merenc when instead of reacting, his friend stared at the pool of blood slowly spreading on the ground, at their victim's ever weakening attempts to push himself up on a heavily trembling left arm. The young one looked a little green around the gills. "What? Want to tell me, you suddenly grew a conscience? Do I have to remind you how many of us died tonight? Wasn't your uncle one of the brave warriors who fell?"
That was all it took. Immediately Merenc's eyes were blazing hate again. No longer hiding behind his matted hair but insistently brushing it back, he knelt down next to the elf. Dodging the victim's weak blow effortlessly, he braced one leg against the elf's back. Easily pinning him down with all his weight, surely not accidentally close to where the arrow was buried, he grabbed his lower arms, forcefully keeping them crossed.
"Not like this. To the front. Better." Karas wrapped the rope around the elf's wrists much tighter than necessary, then hauled him over to the nearest tree by it, marveling at how easy that was, how light the body of a Firstborn was. So all of these stories were true … He enjoyed every of his victim's screams, every agonized squirm, before he tied the rope around some thick limbs close to the ground.
The elf's fruitless attempts to free himself stopped immediately. Breathing heavily, with his face pressed into the ground, he was lying so motionlessly, one could think he'd lost consciousness again if it hadn't been for those violent tremors in his body, starting from his shoulder. Or for the groans suppressed with so much effort only, the sweat soaking his clothes. And another scream when Karas kicked the projectile deeply buried in his flesh, just for good measure.
"We're attracting attention." Merenc turned a worried eye to the sky. "There's strange powers at work in this country, not only Saruman's. The enemy has scouts too."
"Good thinking." Karas took off his tattered red bandana, rolled it into a cord and nodded at Merenc, more inconspicuously than necessary considering how apathetic their victim had become.
His partner was eager enough to get his hands on the elf for a second time. By now he enjoyed it, if Karas read that fire in his eyes right. Two against one. There had been a time when this would have been a taboo. In the old days. Before the Rohirrim had infested the Dunlendings' property. Before Saruman had come.
Now the rules had changed. These days, you enjoyed every distraction from dangerous war routine you could get. Even if it was just torturing an enemy.
It would be the elf's last loud scream when Merenc yanked him up by his long gold blond hair and bent the arrow out of shape until it almost snapped, enlarging the wound it had torn.
Karas quickly knelt down before the elf and gagged him with the cloth. "Much better."
Grabbing the dagger that had come so dangerously close earlier, his fingertips slowly traced the swanky ornaments of the handle. "Fascinating. Forged by big names, I suppose. The likes of you is so ridiculously proud of such unimportant things."
He slowly walked around his helplessly bound victim once more. "Not much pride left now, is it? Five minutes in the dirt and you're already a mess. I can smell your fear from here. And here I thought, your people were famous for their lack of emotion. Doesn't that count for a moment of defeat? Or is that only your weakness? What kind of elf are you?"
He made the tip of the dagger dance on the elf's jaw, forcing him to tilt his head back. "You're not like the others, are you? You are human. Scum for your own people, and for the Secondborn as well who are forced to suffer you but will never accept you as one of their own. All wise elves are fleeing from this world; only people like you refuse to go. Big mistake."
The blade slipped to the elf's neck, ensuring every wrong move would mean death. With one abrupt, fluent flick, Karas sliced down his back, leaving a bloody trail. The layers of the elf's clothes came apart; what remained, Karas tore off with his bare hands.
"Make yourself useful, kid." This, he was happy to relinquish to his eager partner. He had whipped enough people in his life, mostly younglings of his tribe in need of education. He'd never had the pleasure of seeing any of his victims' faces though.
Handing Merenc his belt, he sat down in the grass with a thrill of anticipation. Again, the red stained blade was at the elf's throat, forcing him to keep his head up frantically unless he wished to have multiply sharpened metal stuck in his throat.
Then Karas watched.
Every single strike. Every single drop of blood staining the grass. Merenc hadn't lost any of the strength in his brawny arms in the last battle, and the injury in his left seemed forgotten for the moment.
With nearly every blow of the thin leather leaving a bleeding welt, it took only minutes until the ordeal wiped out every rationality and the pain filled the elf with new energy. Again and again, he reared violently, a useless attempt to escape the next strike while the former still affected him. But at some point, those instinctive twitches stopped as well. The noises of pain grew ever quieter when along with his blood, life left the elf's body. His pale skin started to grey, every shine gone from the ocean blue eyes.
"Stop." Karas called himself to order just in time, remembering he didn't want to see the elf dead. Maybe he would die anyway, maybe they had been a little overeager already, but Karas at least wanted the possibility of survival to remain.
Besides, it was time to leave. It wouldn't take long until someone would come looking for the elf; then Merenc and him couldn't be around anymore. In their condition and poorly armed, they stood no chance against a large group of warriors.
But first … "Leave us alone."
"What?" Merenc put his hands on his hips in protest. "What do you mean? I want to …"
"Piss off or I'll put an arrow through you too," Karas snarled at him. "Guard the path. Call me if anyone approaches." The next business was only between the elf and him. For that, Merenc was too young.
"We don't want any spectators, do we?" Karas murmured huskily when he was finally alone with his victim. "No … That wouldn't be honorable for either of us."
He hooked the dagger blade to the seams of the clothes left on the elf and started to cut again, from his narrow waist down now, careful this time to not nick any skin. "So tender …" More basic, primitive arousal mixed into the intoxication of power when a well-built body was fully bared to his eyes. Breathing heavily, Karas knelt down behind the elf as quickly as his injured thigh allowed, parting his victim's powerless legs with his knees. It was long since he had last seen something as exciting as this formerly flawless back covered in deep furrows. In spite of the growing time pressure, he impossibly could resist the temptation of tracing of a few of them with his fingertips, then with the dagger, reopening a few bleedings, which made the body beneath his tremble heavily once more.
"At night, they talk about it at the campfire." Karas impatiently ripped his pants open. "The orcs who slaughtered your people by the thousands in the last war. They say that soon they'll do it again. Once Lord Sauron reigns this world, they'll come to all of your realms. They will take your wives, your elflings … and the elves, of course. Nothing as enticing, they say, as an elf lying naked before you. I say, the orcs win." Without a warning, he reached out, brutally thrusting two fingers deeply into the elf's body, scissoring them until he felt blood.
More of it dripped down his victim's back when the elf reared up for a last time, a weak attempt to escape the inevitable.
Karas bent down to him, his hand deeply buried in the elf's hair, until his pointed ear was right next to his lips and Karas could moan right into it. He needed to be sure, the other would hear him – and, even more important, understand him. "Your whole life, all of your eternity, I want you to remember how it feels when people populate a country that isn't theirs. You should have chosen the right side in this war, scum."
Creaking wood and a deep hum, like a stag's, made him startle and look up, but he couldn't see anything unusual. Or rather, he couldn't see anything at all. Not even Merenc's silhouette in the distance. "Kid, that's not funny!" He tried to laugh away his short uncertainty, but something made him nervous. Ridiculous. He wasn't a child anymore, afraid to be alone in the woods … And the trees had long calmed down.
Snorting, he knelt over his victim once more to accomplish his work when that cracking sounded again, right behind him this time. "Merenc, I said …" He angrily turned his head and gasped in terror when he saw wood coming to life, sharp and pointed like arrows, all of them pointed right at him.
When he was lifted from the ground and spun around in the air, when the pain started, he spotted Merenc's mutilated body on the clearing where he'd sent the youngling, pierced by countless twigs.
So they couldn't go home and proudly tell what they had done after all.