Just a note from me . . .
After the first draft of this chapter was done, I realised there was so much about writing I've yet to learn. Writing strong emotions are what made this chapter the toughest to write. And once I received fair and honest feedback on that original draft, I shelved the whole story. Not because of the honest feedback from a great friend, but because I knew I could never make it as perfect as I envisioned in my head.
Too hard. Too impossible.
As a famous MotoGP rider once said, 'Your ambition outweighs your talent'.
And at that point I stopped writing altogether.
Time passed as it does, and I ended up messing around a little offline, creating characters, reading articles on writing, playing around with other minor works. And eventually I started a new story for Star Wars: The Clone Wars. And while LOTR and Star Wars don't generally mix, this other story and its characters taught me a few things. Not just about writing, but about life. Determination, choosing to move beyond your grief, and about doing what you love even if you cannot be perfect. Funny how characters can teach their creators!
Then one day I reopened The Elf Husband and took the bitter pill. Afterwards, every month I opened the file again, fixing bits here, ripping out the god-awful scenes and dialogue, the pointless fluff. And rewriting and rewriting, and rewriting . . . You get the picture. I kept going, kept chipping away at this pain in the arse story and its dreadful chapter. Until we come to today, where I can say am satisfied.
So here is the next chapter. It won't be perfect. But it is done.
I thank you all for your patience and support. Let's just hope chapter 19 doesn't take this long to complete.
Truly, it won't be perfect – not even Beta read as I was just too darn excited to be finally finished, and couldn't wait to post it immediately. If it really needs fixing, typos etc, I will of course do my duty, and have learned something else – the dangers of impromptu posting.
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Happy Easter for those who celebrate and stay safe everyone!)
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***At this point I'd also like to remind readers of how ambiguous 'magic' (et al) is in Middle Earth, and how I'd be grateful for all those whose understanding is greater than mine, to please accept my interpretations for the benefit of storytelling.
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Chapter Eighteen - The Chase
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Dramatis Personæ
Baradon/Sculls – Male 27 years, Ranger Elite
Tauriel - Female, 664 years, Woodland Guard, Captain
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The Hunters
Cordoves/Swan – Female 63 years, Ranger Elite, Lieutenant
Dagnir/Trout - Male 95 years, Ranger Elite
Faron/Dusk – Male 82 years, Ranger Elite, Lieutenant
Hathol/Anchor - Male 48 years, Ranger Elite
Laeron/Wren – Male 18 years, Ranger Elite
Legolas/Sindar – Male 2976 years, Woodland Lord/Ranger Commander
Oldhin/Flank - Male 66 years, Ranger Elite
Uan/Ghost - Male 108 years, Ranger Elite
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The young mare dug her hooves deep into the soft grassland, whinnying with great disapproval. She snorted and shook her head. She whinnied again.
On her back, Legolas did not attempt to soothe her. He stared before them, mouth agape.
"Eru have mercy!" Cordoves cried from behind, joined by oaths and cussing from the rest of their company, none more vicious than Faron.
Faron quickly snatched his horse around to face them. "You! And you, and you! Take three rangers each. Secure the perimeter! Kill anything not friendly! Thanieth, take the rest, head over there and check for wounded. We'll check here. Be alert, the orcs may still be alive!
Legolas blinked slowly. It seemed unreal. Beneath his thighs the mare hooved at the grass, her head low. The tightening of her powerful muscles was a clear warning. Whinnying, she kicked back onto her hide legs, bouncing, and tossing her head. Legolas held tight and balanced without taking his eyes off the morbid scene before him. "(Calm yourself)," he soothed through stony lips. The mare steadied, her speckled grey body continuing to tremble under him. Her hard breaths billowed white steam into the chilled air.
That morning's patrol had been so uneventful, their suspicions of orc movements proving fruitless. Legolas commanded they turn back and return to Carthal. Their arrival would have been in time for dinner. This point along the road was thirty leagues south-westerly from Carthal, at Legolas' best guess. In preparation for their return Legolas bore a bag of mushrooms for Foruyndes broth, collected from the thick canopied forest where he halted them for a leisurely midday meal. Legolas even found a handful of honeyberries. He thought them a small gift of affection and anticipated Eryndes' bright smile.
Before diverting to this path in the west, Legolas mused over the pleasant evening to come, imagining Foruyndes' health improved and well enough to join them for dinner. He thought of the mirth and celebrations which occurred every night since the betrothal announcement. Additionally, Carthal was re-emerging much as it once was; the walls and buildings standing tall again, the wounded warriors regaining their strength, the approaching spring bringing the promise of bountiful crops, growing bright in the plentiful sunshine, the first spring stock births, and, of course, his upcoming marriage.
No one spoke about abandoning the place.
And so enthralled in his thoughts, he almost missed the scent. Foul and death and bleak, a horrid stench. Changing direction, they rode hard for twenty minutes into the plains of the west.
That was where they stumbled over this-
"(My lord)?" One of the rangers called up to him.
A cold breeze swept over the plains, teasing at winter grasses and Legolas' hair. He shook himself and sprang into action. "Search for survivors!" He shouted, dropping from the saddle to rush forward before his feet truly touched the muddy plain. Marching over, he kicked at the first orc he passed, mostly to ensure it was dead.
Then another. Another. The number of orcs dead appeared to be twice over the dead humans.
Regardless, it had been a slaughter. With grief Legolas found a few friends amongst the dead. A few acquaintances. Strangers too; old, in the prime of life, and children. These people, whomever they were, wherever they came, they all died upon orc blades.
"There's no mutilation."
"Nor have they been feasted upon," Legolas added to Tauriel's observation.
"Quick deaths? I never knew orcs to show mercy. Was time against them?"
Legolas stopped and stared down at a helm at his feet. Blood covered it, the red hiding much of the gleaming gold. The head inside was known to him. One of Thranduil's archers. One of Legolas' own soldiers.
Regretfully, Legolas saw she was not the only elf slain; there were others. All hacked down just the same as the humans.
Surely there would be life here? Surely not all were dead. Weapons and the remains of looted supplies littered the churned ground. The mules used to pull the wagons were no more; blood soaked heads were all that remained.
"They took the mules, not human nor elf? Why?"
Legolas looked over at Tauriel, "Mules will have greater food value. If they were indeed in a hurry . . ."
A few squeals sounded around him. The rangers were making short work of the surviving orcs.
"Leave one alive," Legolas called out to them.
There was a protracted pause. "Sorry, Sindar. Reckon we just killed the last."
Dropping his head, he growled quietly. How many times had he explained the importance of information? A dead orc spoke no secrets-
The train of thought ended and Legolas blinked. The next corpse held a sword, though its head resting a foot away from his neck.
His brow furrowed further. "Bregol?"
"Bregol?" Tauriel repeated walking over to his side. "He's no longer assigned to ranger duty. He's-"
"Apprenticed to Eryndes," Legolas supplied. Surely it could not be him. Why? Had Bregol accompanied the rangers alone? Lending his basic skills to field dress the wounded?
He did feel sorrow for the young Dunedan. A troubled man, led astray under his grandfather's yoke, had worked hard to improve himself in the months following Nestdol's disgrace. Legolas' own ill-will towards the young man now fed guilt into his belly. Legolas been unjust in his jealousy and with his manner. Now, he was left without a chance to make amends. With a long sigh, Legolas left Bregol's head and continued, checking through the orcs and their victims. So many unknown, and so many he called friends.
Both Dunedain and Woodland would seek vengeance. Then together they would mourn-
Legolas stared down at a dead orc. It lay faced down, black blood drying from the wound in his neck. His frown deepened. The weapon remained where it dealt its killing blow. Bending, he wrenched a shiny metal handled blade free. It came out with a vulgar squelch-
Even covered in blood he knew the knife. He was the one who ordered its creation. He paid Camaenor a pinch of silver for it.
The knife shook in his grasp. His eyes swept from one side to the other, then back again.
No.
Corpses. Humans. A few elves. Orcs. He stumbled a step, then the next and after became a mad dash. "Eryndes!" he shouted, lunging from female body to female body. "Eryndes!"
Why? Why should she be here?
Tauriel ran over to join him. "(What is it)?" He went around her. She grabbed his shoulder and halted him. "Why would she be here?"
"Her knife-" he hollowed, holding up the knife, "She is never without it."
Tauriel noted the knife then spun around, "She might not be here. Hiding nearby? Run during the fight?" She called out to the rangers, "Search the bodies! Search for tracks! Eryndes might have been with them."
Clutching the knife against his breast, he spoke to it, "(Please, tell me you didn't go with them. I wasn't gone long)-" His words died when his eyes caught something ahead and his feet moved on their own volition.
The ground crashed up to meet him, his knees skidding to a halt beside the sad remains of a gelding. The colour, the markings, the saddle. He knew each as well as he knew Aglarebon. The gentle gelding with hooves as swift as a Dunedain war-horse.
Banjo.
Nausea burned the back of his throat-
It could not be. Not now. Not after everything. Not to end this way. "(Please, no)."
A hand took his shoulder. "I do not believe she is here."
He kept a tight clutch on Banjo's old worn leather rein. Why? Why would the Valar do this? Was he so undeserving? Had he somehow offended them? Gone? All gone? Their life together was never going to be long but to take her from him so soon-
It all hit with a punch to the stomach, to his kidneys, and his heart ripped clear. His body lurched in need to empty. His fingers dug deep into the bloody mud and grass, sinking deep. Three thousand years waiting to find her, to thence be snatched away in mere days?
One mud caked hand rose to clutch at his chest, a vain effort to cradle his heart. The agony would kill him, there, on that plain.
The wells in his eyes spilled down his cheeks-
"(Legolas! Listen to me)!" Tauriel shouted in his ear, her hands squeezing at his shoulder and arms, "(Eryndes is not here)!"
Slowly his eyes blinked to clear his vision, Tauriel's words taking a moment to sink in - Not here?
"(The rangers checked all the women. She does not lie amongst the dead)," Tauriel said, still gripping him as if he were adrift at sea, "(She may yet live)."
Where-? Had Banjo been on loan to another? Her knife a loan, too? She struck down the orc than run from the slaughter? As he taught her; to do what was needed in order to flee?
"Tracks," he gasped, the air in his lungs too thick for breathing. "L-look for tracks."
"They're already looking, my lord," her grip on him lessoned, but not letting go, "They'll find her."
"Sindar!" Faron shouted from afar, "Survivors! A few cling to life. Baradon's alive-"
Urgency reanimated his body and he surged to his feet. "Baradon's alive?" Together he and Tauriel sped to where Faron waved. Legolas' feet were still ungainly and he barely avoided the corpses as he sprinted to where Cordoves and Faron knelt. Legolas crashed once more to his knees at the ranger's side. "Baradon."
The young man was in rough shape. He laid on his back, blood trickled down from the corners of his mouth. He gurgled with each breath, his armor dented and destroyed. The black blood of orcs coated him as much as his own.
"Baradon," Legolas swallowed hard. "Tauriel!"
His order was unnecessary; she was already down upon her knees and pulling back at Baradon's armor exposing his wounds. They were grievous. She pressed Legolas' hand over the worst wound, a deep puncture to his belly.
"Baradon?" Legolas implored, his applied pressure doing little to stop the blood pooling against Legolas' skin. "Can you hear me?"
The young man's eyes half opened, dull and unfocused.
"Forgive me, Sindar. I failed."
"Speak no nonsense," Legolas scolded lightly and lent down closer. "Tell us what happened. You were ambushed?"
Baradon managed a small nod, the effort causing him great pain. "Orcs, a hundred maybe more," Baradon broke off to cough, "They set-up those people. Allowed them . . . call our aid. Orcs. . . from both sides. Too many. They . . . wanted our blood. Dunedain blood."
Legolas tore his gaze from Baradon to Cordoves and Faron who stood beside them.
Faron's posture was as tense as a drawn bow, "Over a hundred? They stood no chance."
A wheezed cough stopped Baradon's words from being clear.
Legolas lent close again, "Say again."
"Sindar. They . . . took prisoners," Baradon's face screwed up in despair, "Saw them. Took . . . them. Took Eryndes, took others. F-forgive me."
The entire world stopped and Legolas stared at Baradon.
"Tracks!" Laeron shouted as he raced over to join them, "We found tracks. Leading away to the south west. They carry prisoners. We must go after them. In haste! In haste!"
A general chorus of agreement rose. Legolas held the wound tighter. 'Twas fruitless; the blood continued seeping through his fingers. His eyes were fixed upon Baradon, fixed upon the blood. A sickness was growing within him. Dark. Bleak.
"Sindar?"
His only course was to chase them, and yet. What would he find when he caught up with them?
"You bear no blame, my friend," he murmured to Baradon. "The taken will be recovered."
Baradon's eyes drifted shut. Did he sense the doubt in Legolas' words?
"Tauriel?" Legolas snapped.
"He still draws breath. Bring me more bindings!" Tauriel ordered, then lowered her voice to speak to him, "The wounded must be spirited to Carthal."
"How many?"
"One short of a half dozen, including Baradon," Faron confirmed, his tone just as taught as his body.
"Baradon, how many were you set out from Carthal?" Cordoves asked.
It took a long moment until Baradon forced open his lips. Perhaps for the last time. "Forty . . . four."
Eyes sinking, Legolas exhaled shakily. Five from forty-four Dunedain and Woodland.
Five lived, and an unknown number stolen.
"Baradon's the worst. We may have no choice to-"
"What, Captain?" this snarl came from a young voice; Laeron. "Abandon him for the next lucky wolf or crow?"
"Sindar," Cordoves urged, "We must hasten. Every moment we're idle the further ground the orcs gain."
Tauriel focused on her patient, her wrappings gaining the battle for Baradon's live. She brushed away Legolas' hand, no longer needed. "A moment's consideration is always the best course. The orcs took prisoners? Why? They wanted Dunedain blood, for amusement, revenge or gaining prisoners to torture for intelligence? We must go after them, yes, but I am the best healer amongst the company. I can take four rangers, and keep what survivors alive as I can. One wounded per rider and horse."
"Aye-" Laeron started to say.
"However," Tauriel continued sharply, "my duty lies with my king and my prince-"
"No," Legolas stopped her, gazing a moment longer at Baradon then dug in his feet and stood, a strange calmness taking over him. The breeze cooled Baradon's blood against his skin. "Tauriel, return to Carthal. All of you are to return home. Go now."
No one moved. Tauriel gaped up at him. "No, my lord," her patient tone grated against his spine, "You will not go alone."
"(Indeed)?"
"(Indeed)."
It was not anger he felt; he felt nothing. "(You will stop me)?"
"(You go alone and you will die. So too the hostages)."
"(They will not)," Legolas tucked Eryndes' knife into his belt, swearing the first orc he killed will be by her blade, "(I will not. I order you to take the rangers back to Carthal-)."
"(No, my lord)-"
"(You'll do as I command. You will obey me)-"
"Get your head out your arse!" Faron's snarl shot across at them. Looking away from Tauriel, Legolas saw the elite ranger had moved away without notice and worked collecting supplies from the saddle packs and bundles left by the dead, "How'd you plan rescuing her before the orcs hack her to pieces, along with the others? And then what? If you succeed, how'll you bring them back? Either you slaughter every orc or they'll hunt you down."
Faron's glare left something unsaid. Something he knew, or guessed.
"He's right!" Laeron strode over to stand with Faron and began rifling around for more supplies, "Don't be foolish, Sindar, you need us." Legolas kept his glare trained on Faron, ignoring the young boy. "This is why you and Aragorn trained us. We won't be swayed."
Cordoves slapped her hand on Laeron's shoulder approvingly. "Captain Tauriel, take your four rangers and the wounded back to Carthal; you've our oath; we will remain at his side, whether we return . . . or not."
Legolas brushed passed them. "(I do not need any of you)-"
He oophed from the supply pack Faron slammed into his belly. "Know when to shut up, prince!"
Faron's shout in his face, along with the hard hit to his belly, snapped through the numbness, reawakening him to the pain and Legolas lashed out at him.
Faron easily dodged his clumsy attack. Using his momentum against him, Faron turned him to the side, the ranger snagging his arm and shoulder, immobilizing him with ease. Legolas tried to retaliate and break free with little success; the hold on him was unrelenting. "Think, fool! You can't land a strike!" Faron shouted in his ear before shoving him forward, Legolas' feet stumbling, "You stumble like a day old foal? You of all people! What good are you goin' off alone?"
Legolas might have attacked him again, except he knew Faron was right. He opened his mouth and drew in deep, saturating his blood in calm, clean air.
"There may well still be a hundred orcs," Tauriel cautioned without taking her eyes off her patient. "I vowed to your father. I promised him you would use your head."
Tearing his eyes away from Baradon, Legolas gave no answer. He found his horse, the young mare looking at him questioningly and secured the pack Faron had slammed into him to her saddle.
"He'll keep his head, Captain," Faron vowed, and Legolas heard him slapping another supply pack over his own horse's rump. "I swear it. If I must tie it to his neck."
The air paused a moment. Legolas did not look to any of them. He checked the girth tension and buckle-
"I hold you to your oath, Faron," Tauriel vowed in the end.
Legolas' lip curled, "(It will be Faron's head lost if we fail)."
"Promises, Dandelion."
"Nay," Cordoves growled, "we fail and none of us be keepin' our heads. They'll be atop orc pikes."
Legolas snatched his horse's reins and threw himself up into the saddle, "Mount or be left behind." Pulling the horse around he avoiding looking at Tauriel. Or Baradon. Was he to find Eryndes the same way? Would he find her worse?
"(Go, my lord)," Tauriel called after him. "(Know if you do not return, I shall come after you. With every warrior I can muster; for rescue, for vengeance. I will not return to your father with news of your death."
There was no acknowledging her. Her reminder of his father's love did not resonate. Not much. Not enough to stop him.
Thranduil would understand. He knew as well as anyone could the pain of loss. The grief.
Guiding the mare forward, he allowed the rangers to show him to the orc trail. Seeing the path before him, he set off without word. Those who rode behind him choosing share his fate.
Whatever Eryndes' fate, he would avenge her. Save her hail, save what was left of her from further torment, or find her already departed the world, either way. He would not rest until they all perished under his wrath. Or until they killed him.
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"The orcs have hours on us," Cordoves shouted across from her galloping horse to his left. "It will take time to catch them."
"What she's saying," Faron added, he too shouting to be heard, at his right "is we won't catch them tonight."
"The horses will collapse if we keep this pace," Cordoves shouted, getting in closer to him.
The acidic tang of horse sweat filled his every breath. Eight sets of hooves pounded through the grassland, leagues falling under the thunder of horses hard at flight. The south-eastern plains of the North were vast and Legolas' company had been pushing hard for hours. The sun had bled into the horizon until its final death only moments passed, leaving the sky blood red and angry.
The orcs, too, were moving hard. Dedicated to their punishing pace and no care for stealth, their wargs and foot soldiers left a trail even a village tailor could follow. They must know the Dunedain never abandoned their own. The orcs knew pace was the key if they were to keep their hostages.
What could not know was the number of those trailing them. It was not the great host, not the hundreds of rangers and elves as seen marching across the land in great shows of force.
No, their number was less than a patrol. Eight saddles rode due east, riding hard to claw back the distance between them. If the orcs did indeed know only sixteen gave chase, surely their pace would slacken and eagerly await their quarry with drawn weapons and growling bellies.
Legolas glanced at Cordoves to his right, riding her great chestnut stallion with ease of one born in the saddle. She saw him glance and waited expectantly.
"The rise ahead," he called.
Cordoves lifted her head to better see into the deepening darkness of dusk's last light then nodded.
"We stop for insight."
Bowing her head, she acknowledged his acquiescence.
Not a rest, though, nor were they easing speed. Legolas was not in total loss of his wits. Intelligence and direction were worth the cost of a few minutes.
Nearing the top, Cordoves and Faron held up their hands to signal the others and all horses slowed. Legolas brought his mare to the highest point. Although the darkness did hamper his divine sight, he still saw more than any eagle at this distance. Skies more than any human.
The others crowed around behind him, the horses working hard to catch their breath. Rangers too. Three water skin corks popped and passed amongst the company.
Though he heard with clarity what was happening behind him, he focused, squinting into their darkened path ahead. He saw movement everywhere-
"Here, drink."
A half-filled water skin was lofted and Legolas took his eyes off the horizon to catch it. He might have fussed at Faron for the distraction-
"Drink."
Faron's repeated command was unnecessary; Legolas was thirsty. A quick three gulps of the chilly water and he tossed the canteen back at Faron.
"What do you see?" Faron grumbled, "Or aren't we to know?"
Legolas ground his teeth. "Would you care to know about the rabbits and rodents? Or foxes and the eagles stalking them? Perhaps the two bucks fighting-?"
"Oh, sure. Now's the time wisecrackin'-"
"Sindar. Faron," Cordoves warned. She waved at the dark horizon, "What's our path? Where do they lead?"
There was a limit to what he could see. This time, the Creator be praised for the powers of sight bestowed upon him. Magic of creation and foresight, powers to read minds, and all that which he did not possess. The Creator be praised for his eyes. At their sharpest focus he saw the trampled brush and flattened grass of a large party, moving at pace-
"Their course follows the lowering plains," he pointed to the plains sloping towards the middle and lined with dense thicket, pointing yet surely none of them could see, "down the centre, shifting sharply yet maintaining their course due west."
Faron let out a sharp exhale, "The central lower plains are a swamp. Fetted mud awaits, littered with hidden rocks to break hooves and wheels alike. Only deer paths cut through the maze of thick brush. The ground may still be frozen-" he shook his head, "The going'll be tough."
Legolas gave a single nod.
"They seek haste then travel through unnecessary hardship, guaranteed to slow them?"
Cordoves answered Laeron's query, "They seek to slow any pursuit. Wargs'll move quickly through swamps, unlike hunters on horseback." She addressed Legolas, "Should we go round? Keep a sharper pace and meet them at the western mountains?"
"We do and we'll not only lose the trail. Too the chance our prince here'll glimpse them from afar. We go round and we're huntin' blind."
"But if it's quicker?" Laeron pressed, "And where else would they be headed if not the west?"
"The alps to the south?" Faron scoffed, "Or north? We lose their trail, we won't find them for weeks."
Legolas scanned the landscape as it stretched hundred of miles and the distant peaks Faron mentioned. North, south or west? Faron was correct; the west made sense. The mountains there were taller and the forests wild, stretching out hundreds of leagues towards the ocean. The orcs could hide there indefinitely and never be found.
Yet they took hostages? And scampered off at pace to keep them. For intelligence, yes. For whom? Why? Would they turn north or double back easterly to circle around Carthal, back towards Angmar and their waiting master?
The rangers held out for his decision. Even Cordoves and Faron, though opinionated and far more knowledgeable of the region, kept silent and waited.
He keep his thoughts disciplined.
He would not think of her.
Yet . . . Had she seen this happening, early that morning when he came to her in the healing rooms? When she so obviously not wanted him to go? He saw it in her face, how she longed to beg him to remain. He asked the reason for her fear, and she brushed it away as simply that; just her fear.
If she had've begged, though, would've he relented and stayed? If he had, would all this have been prevented?
Did she have a tinkering of ancient Dunedain witchery in her blood, passed down from her mother who saw glimpses in the future?
If he only listened to her?
Was this all his fault?
That morning felt good. Felt glorious! To feel useful, to feel the warrior once more and not comfortably hiding behind the walls of Carthal.
How quickly they found the orcs trail. Which turned out to be nothing more than a goose chase. A ruse. The orcs used this tactic before, the day they attacked Langwen's farm, slaughtering her and her family.
Was all this his fault? Why had the Creator deemed him due this punishment?
Legolas pushed away those thoughts and doubts. "Our only hope is to hold fast to their trail," he said finally, his mouth spitting at the bitterness of each word. "We cannot lose sight of them."
The choice was made and everything rested on it being the correct path.
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"I will not argue with you about this."
"Legolas, these Dunedain have no sense of propriety. You are honoured as one of them, moreover you are a prince, son of their most important ally, set to marry their Mistress and bringing a long awaited lordship to their lands-"
"I am marrying Eryndes, anything else does not concern me," he stated firmly, nodding absently to those they passed by as they made their way to supper. The noise coming from the great hall told him food was yet to be served; men, women and elves talked, laughed, and drank while waiting.
"How is it proper to have no feast in celebration? No toast to your happiness. No well wishing for a brood of healthy elflings?"
"Trust me, many have expressed their sincere blessing; surely the vast majority of Carthal has done so. Some more than twice," Legolas slowed his pace and gazed at his friend patiently, "however, do not forget three weeks ago their manor was under siege-"
"Your father would still hold a feast, however meager-"
"That is our way, Tauriel," he stressed, "If you are to live amongst other cultures, be prepared to accept their ways."
"It is your wedding. Will you say your vows beside the chook-pen?"
His lips screwed up suppressing a smile, "If necessary." He added when she went to argue, "It is not ideal, I agree. Should I then empty their coffers to uphold elven wedding traditions and pander to my pride?"
Legolas waited for her.
Tauriel held her lips closed before shaking her head.
"Perhaps one day there will come a time for proper celebration. That time is not now." He gestured for them to continue, "In a week I marry, regardless of available festivities or pomp."
Tauriel's shoulders hunched and she nodded once, then her generous mouth curved upwards, "So eager are you, my lord?"
"Should I not be?" He asked, not appreciating her sudden smugness. "Our traditions for a year long betrothal are not the Dunedain way. I am not obliged to wait and I see no reason to make Eryndes wait."
The noise grew with every step forward. "Besides," he easily smiled down at her, "is not every evening in Carthal not a celebration? We drink, we eat, we dance, we sing . . . thankfully not I. What more could I want?"
For the last few paces before the door Tauriel was silent, then she stopped and turned to face him. "(It . . . It lightens my heart to see you so happy)."
The quick flutter in his stomach had nothing to do with the enticing smells of dinner.
"(Truly. And none deserve it more)," Her dark eyes were genuine and warm, and she touched her shoulder, "(May ever you remain so)."
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That conversation outside the great hall was less than a week ago and Tauriel had been right. He was happy and in love. The warmth of his shared love with Eryndes lit up his world, his soul, in a way he never knew. Much of his prior life paled in comparison to those few weeks since their betrothal.
Yet, a part of him was honestly restless. The darkness, ever creeping over the corners and edges, nameless and shapeless, gnawed at him and wordlessly threatened everything he held so very dear. Legolas felt it so strongly, the need to r to prove to himself and those around him that he was still strong, that he was no longer plagued by his battle wounds. It had been essential for him to go out and show the world he was ready to rid the world of darkness.
"Sindar."
What evil was she suffering in this very moment? What torment-?
"My lord?"
His throat thickened. Was she crying his name? Begging him to save her?
"Sindar!" Cordoves' shrill rang in his ears, "The horses must rest!"
Pushing forward, he lead his horse through the near frozen, ankle deep sludge. They had dismounted hours ago to save the horses and reduced the risk of laming them while the navigated the difficult paths. Legolas maintained a hard pace. His leather boots were sound enough to keep out the water and stop the jutting rocks from hurting his feet. His jerkin and leather trousers keep the thicket thorns from tearing into his legs and arms.
Beside him, his horse nickered, the mare joining in the rangers' frustration, her hooves constantly knocking against the rocks, and thorns scratching against her legs and flank.
The orcs had not acted like a random band; setting up those refugees and lay in wait for the Dunedain? Nor did they indulge in defacing or eating the dead. What was their plan? What was their destination?
Guiding the mare across a fallen bush, her legs and hooves knocking unsure against the thicker branches, he drew in a deep breath and held. The air stank of rotten plants and the bodies of small animals. The hours of their pursuit passed unchecked. The night waned and the sky lightened with the arrival of dawn.
He rounded another curve, the deer path twisting and dropping, his boots sinking half-calf in the mud and his face meeting yet another of prickly bush.
A few new scratches stung his face and neck.
A few curses followed behind. One of the rangers failed to see the thorns either.
"The horses must rest!"
That was Faron, his angered shout bouncing around the brush and making Legolas' mare flinch. Legolas ignored him. He had not looked at them for many hours. Not since the last time and seen their miserable states; torn clothing, muddied and bloodied.
They were as promised; strong and determined, the best of the rangers here to follow him to the ends of the earth and rescue their people. Or avenge their dead and give their own lives.
The horses though had little vested in their mission and moved on under a cloud of misery.
"Dandelion-"
"(Then rest and fall behind)," Legolas barked back at Faron without taking his eyes off the path ahead. "(Every moment delayed is another step the enemy gains)."
Ahead however, the air shifted. More than it had for the last handful of hours at least. Sounds of birds caught in the thrall of early morning grew louder. There was a bite to the air, a smell of crisp grasses and fresh water.
Rounding another tight, blind curve, the corridor of thickets broke away and before them lay a marsh clearing. There was higher ground to be had; a embankment circling around pools of water, the tightly woven, short grasses churned up by the passing of orc and wargs. He made for the higher ground as surer feet would make better time. His mare picked up her head and snorted, her stride once more eager.
Getting up higher, the earth did away with the thorny brushes and had set out a vast carpet of grasses, the plains rolling gently with small hills and shallow streams.
"There's a pondage ahead, look, and the water's moving." Cordoves called, her tone conciliatory. "Sindar, the horses must drink. We've gained ground against them, I don't doubt we have and any time lost stopping will be quickly regained with fresher horses."
Her reasoning . . . Legolas peeled his eyes off the beaten turf of the orcs trail to look about. The landscape was sweeping, windy and it blew cold. The clouds hung low here and soon would rain. Not a tree lay in the path ahead. Nor large stone. The slopes were subtle.
"How further do the plains stretch?" he grumbled his question.
Cordoves made her way to walk astride him, her chestnut beside her. "If the orcs are using the plains to gain speed, they'll run for three days before they reach the river at the east. If they don't risk a crossing into the western mountains, it's a day to the southern hills and same for the wild forests of the north."
"What's the plan," Faron bit out, "To run them down, orc knives to our people's necks?"
Legolas dropped his chin and breathed hard.
"If we can sneak upon them, cut them out in the black of night-"
"They'll keep to the plains for more than just speed, Laeron," Cordoves wised. "How can we sneak close without cover?"
"If only the sun would deign shine to slow their pace," Dagnir soured from behind. "If the clouds don't clear-"
"There is no choice," Legolas resolved, "if we slow they will escape us." Squeezing his fist, he forced the words from his lips, "One hour. Water the horses and rest for one hour. Then we run them down."
"And our people?" Faron demanded.
"We know not their fate. They may well be already dead." He spoke around the choke in his throat, "(And if not? Better she die in a hopeless battle than live for the sport of orcs)."
"You'd rather they die-?"
Laeron's cry was cut off by a sharp cuff to the back of his head from Faron, "Shut up." Faron then turned his glare upon him, "Legolas the Orc-Hunter admitting defeat? Legolas the Destroyer gives in and let's his betrothed die-?"
"Keep your tongue still while you still own it!" Cordoves snapped. She threw her hand up to point towards the lake, "Water your horses. Go! Now!"
Faron glared at her yet offered no more words. Shaking his head, he followed the others to the lake.
Cordoves turned her attention to Legolas, holding her own tongue a moment, her eyes searching his face. "Sindar," she spoke with an effort to be gentle. "I know you're angry, you're grieved. You are afraid. Nevertheless, I do not believe a word of what you just said."
"What do you know of it?" Even as he bit out the words, Legolas cringed, angry at himself.
"I know a great deal. You know I do. My father? My two little brothers? One who died at your side? My husband-" She squared her jaw then continued, "I wasn't fast enough to save my husband and spent years reliving that day. So, yes, I know exactly how you feel."
Closing his eyes, he breathed, "(I am sorry)."
"For all Faron's faults, he knows as well as we all do; we go in hot and the first thing they'll do is kill our people."
He clenched his fist, the pain keeping the rest of him numb. 'Rest, my love, I will not let go.' He squeezed harder as the vow he made echoed through his mind.
"You know more about hunting orcs and goblins and every other beast in Arda than anyone, and yet you're not thinking straight. You're afraid and that fear will cost us any chance of rescuing them."
Looking down at nothing, he gave a swift nod.
"Fear and despair are poor councils. Let us," she pointed to the group over by the lake, "take the lead. Trust us. Let us make the right decisions. Your devotion to her . . . Do not mistake in thinking ours is any less to our king and his sister, our Mistress. To her and to our own kin who we will not leave to this fate. We will find them, and fortune willing, rescue them. If we don't give into despair. If you'll trust us."
She spoke the truth; he was afraid. He could not think beyond seeing what the orcs were doing to her. What a quick death would save her from.
He could not think and remember everything from the time he shared with Eryndes. To think of what their future was meant to look like. How that future may now never be.
Legolas lifted his head and stared into her eyes. She was a fierce warrior, a grieving widow, mother of three young girls, who wanted more than anything to see her girls grow up. Yet she was here, primed, and willing to accept whatever fate befell her for the chance of rescuing her people. "(I concede)," he cleared his throat, and a little of his mind for the first time since undertaking this journey. "You will take the lead. You and Faron."
Cordoves did not sink the spear in deeper, nor gloat or crow. With a sympathetic upturn of her mouth, she inclined her head, "One hour's rest. We'll track them at pace but only once we find them do we decide what's to be done."
"Wait." he stopped her before she moved off. "Would you-" he asked breathlessly, "Would you have taken us around?"
Cordoves leant back a little, appraising. "No," she admitted. "No, I'd have stuck to their trail. Just as we've done. The risk of falling behind is still better than the risk of losing them entirely."
He pursed his lips and nodded. There was no lie in her eyes.
.
.
The sky darkened as the promised hour of rest grew nearer to its end.
The rangers sat on the peat ground, their cloaks wrapped around them, nibbling at what little rations they had with care. They would not over indulge. Each took just enough to keep their strength for the next half day. What food taken from the wagons would not last long.
Legolas refused the offer of rations, and did not take his ease on the ground. To be at ease was intolerable. He stood rooted to the ground, his arms tightly crossed over his chest., his thoughts nowhere nearby . . .
.
The hour was already late and Carthal silent. Legolas' quarters were warm, cozy, and private. She claimed not to be the least bit tired. Although he saw the tightness around her eyes and her slower steps along the hall. He obligingly stoked the fire with plenty of wood while she poured the wine. Taking the armchair for himself, he lounged and propped his legs on the hassock. And when she brought over the wine, he tugged her into his lap, folding his arms around her and holding.
There they talked awhile, ambling conversation, from topic to topic, none of any significant importance. He stared at the flames of the fire, permitting the light to fill his senses and tempt his mind to dreams of fancy while tracing the curve of her waist with slow deliberation. At some point, the night now extremely late, Eryndes idly picked the book from the table beside his chair when their conversation muted into comfortable silence. She could not have read more than a few words as she contently flicked through the pages.
"I should leave you to rest," Legolas suggested quietly. Would she allow him to carry her to sleep in the comfort of his bed? Was that too bold?
"Nay," she said with a small wiggle to bury herself deeper into him like he was a pile of goose down, "'m fine."
He might have pointed out how the book swayed in the cradle of her hands four times in the last minute. Instead he reset his hold around her, snuggling closer so her head rested better against his shoulder.
Again the book swayed then shot up, like a snake dancing to his master's flute.
"Honoured as I am to be your pillow-"
"I am not sleepy," she said. Her head rose, her eyes open and full of request. Legolas indulged her gladly, taking her lips with his, slow and gentle. During their kiss, the book fell forgotten, dropping from her grasp and sliding down his chest into his lap. Neither of them retrieved it, Eryndes instead choosing to favour his jaw and cheek with her featherlike caress.
Her ministrations did not last long and her kiss grew fainter-
"My kiss fails to keep you awake."
Her eyes blinked open and she smiled coyly. "Your kiss could keep me from certain death," she cooed, resting her head on his chest, "Only you are too comfortable."
"I thought you said you were not tired?"
"Maybe I lied. Is it so wrong to wish to remain? To be in your hold, and not let go?"
The swell in his chest made him want to smile like a lovesick elfling. Instead he pressed kisses into her hair before resting his head against hers. "Not in the least wrong."
Her hand smoothed over his collarbone, across his chest and held. She sighed sleepily, nesting her head against his neck, "Shall sleep here? Shall I will always sleep here?"
"Promise?"
Her fingers tightened in his tunic, bunching the fabric beneath his ribs. "Promise."
His chest swelled further, enough to close his throat. "Here," Legolas placed her book on the table beside their armchair and leant forward to free the blanket from the back of the chair and tossed it over them. He slid her legs better atop of his and tucked the blanket particularly around her, leaving nowhere for the cool night air to penetrate.
"A small recompense for reducing me to your bedding?"
"Hmm?" She looked up at him, her eyelids hooded.
He took her lips again, this time briefly, then eased her back down into his embrace, "(Rest, my love. I will not let you go)."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
.
"Here," Faron called, breaking Legolas out of his memory and tossed over a lump of dried beef.
Legolas caught the meager piece.
In truth, the last time he ate was the night before last, when Legolas held her hand under the table, sitting side by side in the great hall. The hour was late and only a sparse few still lingered. They shared a plate of Sali's candied dried fruits with a pitcher of wine; a small treat Sali afforded them. And when the woman gathered to make merry, he kissed her hand and watched her join them. It was something they did every so often; reciting scandalous tales, talk secretively about gossip, sing silly songs to the drinking of ale.
He knew they did the latter to vex the men.
'Have another tend the wounded and walk with me under the stars.'
The night had not been romantic. At the time it was not their last night. She and her friends were fond of their brand of fun and they had years to fill with romance. He would not intrude on her time with her friends. Just as Legolas was afforded the same with his own companions.
That night he listened and watched from across the way from where he and his company shared a barrel full of mead, ale and wine over much talk and laughter. Often he and Eryndes exchanged glances between them, especially as each of the women's song grew increasingly ridiculous as the evening drew on. He knew they did it to embarrass or shock the fellows. Gell, Geledir, Camaenor and Laeron and a few of the others shouted in banter with the women. The rest of the men and elves pretended not to hear anything.
By the stroke of midnight, Eryndes separated from her group and smiled over at him.
Sparing his companions a quick excuse, Legolas caught up as she left the hall, and she started to bid him good night.
.
"You deny me the pleasure of escorting you?"
"I am not retiring," she stood on her toes to press her lips sweetly to his, "I must head to the healing rooms. It is my turn to watch the night."
His hands rested on her hips, keeping her close for another kiss. "(Should I be jealous if you prefer the company of others)?"
Her touch upon his face, her palm cradling his cheek, mesmerized and he forgot his own question. "You are welcome to join me, Legolas, only nothing would get done. Every time you do, you prove a distraction."
A wry twitch ghosted the corner of his lips, "Because you cannot restrain your eyes from me?"
Her laugh sang in his heart. "Your vanity knows no bounds-" her gaze dropped to his lips in obvious invite. "The sick and wounded need a focused attendant." She returned to his eyes, "And I might point out who's gaze cannot be swayed."
Legolas admitted to that with a smirk then bent to rest his head to hers and breathed, "Have another tend the wounded and walk with me under the stars."
The answering giggle was hardly the response he expected.
"It is raining," she explained, "Unless your ruling powers include the heavens there will be no stars tonight." Her kiss was short and conciliatory, "Besides, I don't want a reputation for shirking duty. I will see you in the morning . . ."
.
Thus their last night passed without ado or lasting memory of romance.
Legolas scowled down at the meat. "Laeron," he called then tossed the beef to him. He felt Faron's eyes burning into his back, so he turned to the man, "What?"
"Even elves must eat." Faron's tone was not confrontational. He was being sensible.
The last thing Legolas' stomach wanted was food.
"Why do they do this?" Hathol quietly spoke his question amongst the group.
"What?"
"Kill everything. Take prisoners? They bleed and torture-"
"Enough," Faron growled. "They're orcs. It's what they do."
"I know. My question is why?"
"Eat, ranger," Cordoves muttered, uncorking her canteen. "While you can. Two minutes before we mount up."
Legolas' gaze turned from them to gaze towards the west and the path that lay ahead of them. He recalled the Dunedain tortured and left to rot in Angmar. He saw the horrors the captured young elk endured before he mercifully died. The things he witnesses over his long years, the cruelty, the depravity.
Why?
The easy answer was orcs were evil. Yet was that truly an answer? They were evil and therefore they filled the world of terror and misery? How did watching others suffer give pleasure to evil?
Drawing his eyes from the perceived misery in the west, Legolas ambled over to his borrowed horse. A young mare, sure footed and swift. He ran his hand over the small nicks in her hide, shallow scratches not enough to draw blood. Evidence of the grueling day she endured. "(I'm ashamed)," he whispered to her, "(to have pushed so relentlessly. Yet, I must ask more; I have a great need of you. I need your strength. I beg you help me)."
The mare, whose name Legolas did not know, lifted her head from her meal. She eyed him then nickered gently, nudging him in the belly with her nose, before returning to the grass.
He stroked her neck, "(My honour, and gratitude, fair one)."
Their toil continued all through the day, and the sunset was unimpressive, heavily obscured by thick clouds. If the weather continued this way, the orcs would have no trouble moving swiftly and out of their reach.
.
.
Mid morning the next day the clouds grew darker and by midday they opened in a constant deluge. The good news was the trail remained. And it was fresher. Hours fresher. The distance between them was shortening.
Additionally there was no evidence of a stop for more than a few moments, which gave the orcs little chance to indulge in their captives.
Upon early afternoon, the hunters came across a trickling stream created by the constant downpour and watered their mounts. The rangers took ten minutes to sit on the soggy ground and bite on their rations to ease their growing hunger.
Again, Legolas was yet to find the stomach for food, although this time his aching back demanded he too rest on the soaking grass. Though the stitches were long removed and his scar disappearing, he ached. From shoulder to below his ribs throbbed in time to his heart. Two days hard riding proved what Eryndes and his own healers warned; he was not completely healed and his muscles needed time to mend and regain strength.
Legolas pursed his lips against the ache. Crossing his legs on the ground, he eased forward to straighten up-
"Do you think Baradon lives?"
Legolas was startled to realise Baradon sat opposite him, the young man staring at him intently. Laeron held scrutiny unflinching.
"His injuries-," he began, finding it difficult to speak. He steeled his nerve, "I . . . do not expect so."
When Laeron's hollow eyes did not blink, and his head nodded once, it was plain the boy had already accepted his best friend was already dead.
That tore yet another layer of Legolas' spirit. Fingering Eryndes' knife at his belt, he tried for the right words. "Tauriel has much experience tending battlefield wounds. If anyone could get him back to Carthal alive . . ."
"If there's a child, I'll swear myself brother to Celegeth, uncle to the child."
His throat clenched. Yes, Celegeth did passionately believe herself pregnant. "Indeed. Baradon's . . . offspring will not go wanting. That is my promise." Taking in a deep breath and holding, he pushed down the pain in his back, and the pain in his heart. He exhaled quietly. "However, such oaths are premature. There will be time enough upon our return."
"If we return."
Those wretched words, said tonelessly, no spark or spirit, felt like a bucket of ice water to his face. His young friend, usually so cocky and zealous, so unflappable just like his father, Urion.
"Laeron." He sighed through his nose. "Come," he got up and offered a hand. Laeron allowed him to pull him to his feet. Letting go, Legolas took his shoulder firmly, "One step ahead of the last."
The young man's bottom lip trembled. Still he bravely nodded and returned the gesture, taking Legolas' shoulder. "To the end, Sindar."
.
"Sing for me?"
She turned her attention to him then back to her task. "Now? Here?"
"Aglarebon will not mind."
Her delicate, nimble fingers blotted at the excess cleansing tonic from Aglarebon's stark white hair surrounding the healing arrow wound. "What trade do you offer this time?"
Legolas scoffed at that, folding his arms across his chest and quirked a brow. "I did not know you were so mercenary."
She finished her work and gave Aglarebon a few soothing strokes down his neck. "I must do what I must to get what I want. Is that not true, Aglarebon?"
"Well, then," He dared, impishly, "I am your servant."
"You, my servant?" she mused, gathering her things. She brushed past him out of the stall while he held the gate open. "I like the sound of that."
Those bright blue eyes calling to him like a moth to flame. He grasped her hands to cradle against his chest and drew her in close. When she stared at him that way, he barely knew his name. "I told you once I was yours to command." Hardly eloquent but he meant it. He trusted her enough to say them without pause or embarrassment.
"When was-? Oh! That was about horses."
"Was it?"
Her amusement fell from her face, replaced by something else. Something far more profound. "I knew not what you meant."
"Just, do not insist on making me play music."
That made her frown, "You played so well that day-"
"You say so because it is me. To be kind. The truth is I can make notes, not music."
She wanted to argue, he saw it in her eyes, in the bite of her lip. "Very well," Her fingers entangled in his, her expression changing to one of understanding. "I will never ask again."
Bringing her hands up and bowing his head over them to press a kiss, "Thank you." He felt her shift and reducing the distance between them to naught, her cheek against his. One day he would explain the pains of his youth and why certain things should not be broached. Not now though. A day where sad tales were natural and not bring down the joy of happier days.
"No snakes in our bed."
Legolas chuckled into her hands, his body's tension easing and brought his head up. Eryndes' own smile was infectious. "No snakes," he promised, beaming at her.
"Since," she stepped back and took his arm with hers, "I am mercenary; would you trade me your verses? I would insist on them penned of course."
Another chortle sprang from his throat. "If you wish," he started to lead her towards the stable door, "I then insist your songs be of a maid's unbridled love and passion for her champion."
"A champion who valiantly saved her from kissing man she did not care for? Or was it simply his jealousy?"
Legolas smirked, his head tilting and letting that be answer enough.
"Giving your experience of such situations, perhaps there is your first poem?"
Legolas stopped them just inside the warhorses' stable main door. The sunlight breaking through the clouds basked them both in a glow. He played with the sleeve of her dress before taking her hand, entwining their fingers.
"How dashing and charismatic will you paint the heroic prince?"
His chin rose and he asked wryly, "How lovely shall I paint the maid?"
She beamed at him and tugged his hand to bring him along with her. "Indeed, how shall you-?"
.
Jerking back to the present, he scowled furiously at himself. Concentrating solely on the trail and memories, it almost went unseen. Blinking hard in the bright sunshine blanketing the afternoon, he eased back the mare from her run over the grassy rolling hills which began breaking up the plains since two hours passed.
The others followed, easing their own horses to slow.
"What is it?" Cordoves called to him.
"Our quarry stops." He studied their surrounds, his sight darting, observing both near and far. His head shot up and around to face his companions. "Hasten south! Downwind! Before they smell us! Hasten! Quiet as you can!" He spun the mare south and urged her on. She picked up her hooves and took flight, pounding hard as she could as if sensing the urgency. The others followed closely behind.
Were they hiding away from the sun? Were they hungry?
Ten minutes later, Legolas pulled them up down the bank of a seasonal river, now flowing only ankle deep. Ahead was the steep rise of foothill. "Quiet," he bade them, "The orc reside in the next gully. We are downwind however our voices will carry."
"How'd you know?" Faron frowned at him. "How do you see these things?
There was something about the ranger's expression; an honest question? Awe? Whatever it was compelled Legolas to explain, however vaguely. "The tracks, the impression on the air and ground, were mere hours old and no signs they then led away. They are camped, perhaps in shelter from the sun."
"You can see that?" Uan murmured.
"Do you smell blood?" Laeron asked, swallowing, "Human?"
Legolas started to shake his head, then stopped. "Yes. Stale."
"What does that mean?"
Faron removed his sword belt, quiver, and bow, and handed them to Uan. "It means the blood is from a corpse. Come on. Four will stay here and keep the horses quiet. Four of us will scout. Sindar, obviously. Cordoves and Laeron."
Cordoves already had her twin blades unbuckled, "Quickly. There isn't much sunlight left in the day if we're to have any chance."
.
.
"Our luck holds-?"
Faron silenced Laeron whisper with an elbow, then used his hands to speak emphatically. Silence!
Legolas crawled forward another couple inches and drew his focus sharper, scanning one length of their camp to the other. It had been an arduous belly crawl, a quarter of a league across the top of the long oblong hill, all the while careful to keep downwind. The orcs thus far had no guards monitoring the higher ground. Down in a small gully, carved by a seasonal stream, the camp pre-established.
The afternoon sun bore down unhindered, prisoning the orcs under the camp's sparse shelter.
A frozen wind blew across Legolas and his three companions, blowing from the icy north. Bright the sun was and yet did nothing to the temperature.
The orcs kept their number concentrated to the gorges mouth, where most of the shade was.
At the back were the hostages, tied to pegs staked into the ground.
Heart in his mouth, Legolas' eyes flicked from each-
His eyes took in the sight on the third human, a woman. His eyes closed and he breathed.
Cordoves too saw her and pointed to the others.
Laying with her back to them, Legolas saw her chest rise and movement against her restraints, shifting to close her body tighter into a ball.
She was alive. She was breathing.
"Hope she's whole-"
Faron elbowed again, "Laeron, I'll beat tact into you."
Quiet! Cordoves mouthed and signed. She twisted herself around on her belly to face Legolas, What do you see?
Legolas stiffly relinquished the sight of Eryndes, Count five hostages.
Faron shook his fist no then signed, Four. One dead.
Legolas turned back to the camp. Faron was correct. One of the smaller humans, a small female by the size. She did not move, and laid unusually upon the ground. Focusing closer, he saw the distance between limbs was too great. And the flesh of those limbs was ripped and torn. And she was covered in blood.
So the sad truth of the stale smelling blood was discovered.
Cordoves kept on point and signed, Direct attack impossible. Enemy too many.
He showed his agreement with a nod.
Back. Work plan, Faron signed.
They all gave a nod and crawled back down the slope. It was a long, and arduous crawl, taking valuable time and strength.
.
.
"Ideas?" Cordoves searched their faces. Moving further away from the orc camp to the shelter of a tree lined dell, a plan was to be hatched out of danger of discovery.
"Can we not simply sneak in and free them? The daylight will have half blinded the orcs."
"Not their ears or noses. And once discovered we'd be trapped."
"A frontal assault is folly. So where does that leave us? Sneaking in and hoping we smell as bad as they do?"
"That's precisely what we'll do."
Cordoves looked at Faron, startled. Legolas and the others did too. "Explain."
"We light a fire to the north east, upwind of them-"
"A fire?" Dagnir coughed, "After all that rain?"
"Oil on chaff and deadwood will do. Whatever we can. Not just smoke. Blood; we toss blood our around and upon the wind. The scent of blood, man, horse and elf, and smoke for good measure-"
"They'd be on us like a dwarf to gold," Legolas put in frowning. "We cannot hope to defeat them."
"We don't," Cordoves regarded Faron keenly, "We don't engage them at all."
"Nay, the smoke and blood is the diversion. We'll sneak in while the horde's off chasing smoke."
Cordova turned from Faron to Legolas, waiting, unspoken words upon her lips.
Legolas held her stare for a three count, "I conceded command."
Cordoves' brow rose, patiently.
Taking his gaze from her, he glanced to the plains then up to the top of the gorge some distance away through the thick trees. They were only eight, out to trick a hundred odd orcs and rescue their people alive.
Returning his attention to them. He pressed his lips into a tight line. "What other choice is there? A frontal assault will simply kill us quicker. Given our number . . . this is a chance. I do not judge it a particularly strong chance. Regardless, I will not abandon . . . I go, alone if I must."
Cordoves considered-
"I'm going if he's going," Faron put out into the weighty silence, "Captain Tauriel's promise to behead me or not."
Legolas glanced at Faron. The man kept his attention trained on Cordoves.
Laeron stepped forward, "I'm going."
Cordoves took in the faces of the patrol. Finally, she nodded, "Very well. May fortune favour us. Who's got a spare waterskin?"
Laeron choked, "You want us to fill an entire canteen with our blood?"
"Not to the brim and the stopper will keep the scent from escaping and alerting the enemy before we're ready."
Legolas held out his hand, his eyes flicking to the gold band around his finger. Drawing Eryndes' knife he did not hesitate and sliced into his skin. "Not too deep and not in a spot to hinder you." He strangled his arm, squeezing, and pumped his hand.
His blood seeped into the canteen held aloft by Laeron, "There are probably creatures out there who'd do a dance and chant to raise demons doing this."
Legolas' eyes bore into Laeron in alarm-
"Careful, lad, some might call that treasonous," Dagnir warned.
"Did I say me?" Laeron defended, "My father'd castrate me if I summoned a demon."
"Did Urion not also tell you speaking of them invites them forth?"
Chastised, Laeron fell silent. Scowling but silent.
When given all the blood he was prepared to give, Legolas eased the grip on his arm and pulled away. "Pray none of us will ever live to behold a demon. They are not for the likes of us to face."
Faron stepped up and took Eryndes' knife from Legolas with a snatch. "You'd balk from a demon?" he asked, making his cut, and squeezing.
Legolas tied a scrap of linen around his arm and answered flatly, "As should you."
Laeron took the knife next while Cordoves held the canteen. Then Cordoves took her turn, followed by the rest until the canteen held surely enough to entice an orc's nose. Hopefully, a hundred orc noses.
Legolas homed the knife securely back in his belt. Soon it would taste orc blood, he swore to it.
"Go far enough to escape without being seen," Cordoves instructed the two rangers chosen for this part of the mission, Hathol and Oldhin, "while close enough for the smell to tempt them. Haul the blood to the wind then double back. Understood?"
The two answered with a curt nod.
"Four of us will go into the camp and if make it out with our people, we must scatter to break up the pursuit. We break off into pairs. One will carry, another will guard. Give your spares to the horses not carrying two. When the horses tire, switch them."
About to choose his guard, Legolas stopped when Faron pulled the reins of his mare to join with his own. "You've got me, Dandelion. We both know there's none better."
There was so much he still did not trust him, and yet . . . "Agreed."
"Finally you see my value," his muttered with a shake of his head, "I'll stand watch from the crest. Provide cover if this goes bad."
"Good idea. Hathol?" Cordoves continued, "you'll partner Dagnir and Oldhin you've got Uan's back. Head for the mountains. That is the best chance for cover. Laeron, you'll be my guard and stand by our horses." Cordoves stopped and looked at Legolas, waiting.
He conceded command to her, yet still, they looked to him for wisdom. What wisdom could he offer when his love lay down in the mud and rain, injured or broken?
Taking a moment, he glanced at each face in turn. And the hard truth was it was highly likely some if not all would not survive. They took this venture because they could not do otherwise. They would get their people out or die trying. "If you must engage, draw them in for a quick kill, then ride hard. There are too many to survive an all out conflict. Your only chance is flee and flee hard. Keep your horses to swift ground. Stick to cover. Rely on your training," he paused, "and your Dunedain stubbornness."
A couple smiled and another chuckled.
Cordoves nodded to the two men on horses, "Now be off and may Eru guide you."
"Is this going to work?" Laeron murmured to no one as Hathol and Oldhin took off towards the north.
"It no longer matters," Legolas stated, a strange sort of relief easing his muscles. Even his back relaxed. After their journey, the time was upon them. Eryndes lived and whether they were successful, she and Legolas were bound to the same fate. She would not remain at the orcs mercy. Not alive. Her torment was at an end. "Our course is set. Focus on your part and leave the rest to fate." Removing his bow and quiver, he secured to his saddle. He checked all strappings, ties, and buckles, securing anything that might give them away.
With all due care to remain quiet, the six rode their horses back to the foot of the large hill with the oblong crest. And there they waited.
Twenty minutes passed. Twenty minutes of anxious faces. Cordoves stood solid on her feet, though her gaze drifted towards the north east and her family there.
Laeron fingered the bandage wrapped around the cut to his arm. Dagnir braced his back against his horse, arms crossed. Legolas ignored Faron's stare burning into the back of his head.
"Uan, your extra pack?" the deafening silence was cut by Faron's question.
Nodding, Uan took the pack from his back and tossed it to Faron, "Not much. A few tonic tinctures, a flint stone and blanket. A full waterskin."
"Better than naught," Faron said gruffly. He tied the pack to his own horse, then set about checking all ties and buckles. His weapons were already re-strapped to his person. "Direct flight home will take half day more than three. Four days if we battle terrain."
No one answered, though not because they disagreed. Faron knew this part of the north better than any other ranger. No, they did not speak for the tension in the air.
They continued to wait.
Twenty-two minutes passed and piercing like an arrow aflame shot high into the darkest of nights, came the roar of orcs. The animal, guttural call to battle shook the world and all manner of nature's creatures fell silent.
Joining the roar was the sounds of barking and howling. Not the sound of domesticated dogs. This was vile, and feral.
Wargs.
"They've taken the bait?" Laeron breathed.
"We'll know soon enough," Uan gained his feet properly and nodded to each of them. "Best of luck, friends. May we meet again at Carthal. Or in the halls of our fathers."
Laeron nodded, paled and brave, and took the reins for each of the horses. Dagnir knocked Faron and Uan on the arm.
Cordoves faced Legolas, kissing a crooked finger, and raised it to her forehead. He answered her with a touch to his shoulder, letting his hand sweep down.
Moving as together, Legolas, Faron, Cordoves, Uan and Dagnir once more climbed through the trees back up the crest. From there it took time, their bellies flattened over the soft wet grass and mud, their fingers digging into the sodden earth. Eyes and ears on alert in case they were spotted.
Once reaching the other side and seeing into the valley, they halted. And waited. Legolas swept the surrounds to ensure they presence remained unseen.
The orcs had taken the bait; only a couple dozen remained behind to safeguard their camp and prisoners. Satisfied, he signaled to the others, Forth.
Each of them nodded. Keeping low enough to the ground their chins rested in the wet grass, four of the five descended.
Legolas maintained his study of the camp, awkwardly, during the belly crawl down the slope. Eryndes remained as previously seen her, tied, and curled tightly. Breathing. The other three captives were the same; tied, lying in the mud, unmoving, showing no sign their spirits dwelled.
The orcs who remained behind lazed around the camp, keeping as much of their bodies out of the direct sunlight as possible.
One orc guarded the captives; one bored orc, barely looking in their direction or region around the camp.
With a nod, Legolas drew Eryndes' knife.
The blade found its mark, straight through the orcs lung, accompanied by a simultaneous hit to its other lung. The orc's eyes searched around in surprise, squealing a soundless roar; their hits were precise and the orc could not scream. It swayed, drunklike, then tilted-
Cordoves sprung from her position, cushioning the orc's fall to the ground with no more than a whisper of sound. She yanked out the two knives and tossed Eryndes' knife to Legolas. They both held fast, crouching, knives poised-
The whisper had been enough to gain the notice of another. A taller orc, broader too, snarled from his place by the fire. Instead of noticing the absent guard, he stalked directly towards the captives, "Who's moving, eh?" He kicked out at the nearest human, a young male. The boy cried out in pain and terror, cowering, trying to sink into the ground. "You wanna taste your own blood? Maybe I'll make ya eat ya own tongue!"
Both Legolas and Cordoves braced perfectly still, his heart pounding for all to hear.
"What about you, filthy sow?" The orc turned his attention to Eryndes. She sobbed, curling away further from the orc.
Throttling the hilt of her knife still in his belt, Legolas bared his teeth.
The hand movement from Cordoves gained his attention. She made no further movement, except for the sternness in her eyes. The message was clear; If he lost his mind, they were all dead.
"Hey, sow?" the orc pushed her head into the muddy ground with his putrid boot, "We'd naught fun with you yet. You gonna tell us what we wants to know? Tell us who's the heir? Or will I pluck out an eye or two-?"
Legolas' tensed, wanting to smear the orc's innards all over the their camp. He flinched when the orc kicked at her. Her cry seared against his heart. "What was that? How's about me shovin' me pike in your baby hole? Skewer ya good. Meat on a stick."
Legolas snapped up the knife from his belt, barely containing the battle cry bubbling inside him and leaping out to slice the orc to pieces.
Nonetheless, his action proved enough to catch the orc's eye, his head shooting around. Yellow eyes wide-
Dagnir sprung up brandishing a blade before the orc managed to raise the alarm. He homed it deftly into the orcs eye socket, his other hand around the orc's mouth. A quick snap broke the orc's neck. The legendary ranger skill aptly demonstrated, silent, unseen, and deadly.
Dagnir slid the dead, mercifully silent orc to the ground.
Cordoves tapped her knife to her head, the fierceness in her eyes not diminishing for a second.
Legolas lowered his head in concession to her. Keep his head or lose it. Drawing a slow breath, he calmed and waved his fist, gaining the others attention. Flattening his hand, he raised it palm up. Cordoves bent and twisted to look over the camp. Satisfied, she signaled up to the hill at Faron, who held his bow drawn and arrow knocked.
The call of a small bird answered.
Clear.
Quickly, the four of them moved to their chosen captive. The ranger who killed Eryndes' tormentor, Dagnir, retrieved his knife and moved off. Legolas paid him little mind, creeping over to Eryndes. On his way he passed the deceased captive Faron noticed earlier. A young girl, no older than Baineth. The young healer whose name escaped him. He knew however that her name, once known, would haunt him. None should suffer as that one had and the sight of her, like her name, would be burned in his memory for eternity.
Squeezing his fists and focusing on his footfalls, he made it to Eryndes' prone figure. Every emotion, every thought must be on what he was doing and not the fate of yet another innocent life ended in violence and cruelty.
Reaching Eryndes took mere seconds and felt a lifetime. What had she already suffered? She had not moved and remained curled up in a ball with her back to him.
Stealing a last look about, he scrutinized every movement, every sound. The orcs flicked and snapped at the flies buzzing around their stinking bodies. He heard one orcs scratching. Another picked at his teeth. The wind rustled the sodden grasses. Nothing to suggest alarm.
By this time, the others were already leaving with their charges, Uan successfully carrying an elderly man over his shoulder towards escape.
Bending low on his knees, Legolas whispered, "Eryndes," and reached for her, laying a hand on her hip.
She whimpered, her body cringing tighter. She was filthy. Her dress was soaked and torn. Her skin was far too pale. Her hands, her fingers, dug into her clothing, squeezing herself tighter into a ball-
He pursed his lips. She was whole from what little he could tell. No seeping, her limbs moved without apparent pain. An orc had gone at her hair; her long black locks hacked off above her shoulders.
Trying again, he leant further over her, whispering in her ear. "Eryndes-"
Her crying grew louder. Flinching, he hastily covered her mouth with his hand. He threw his eyes back in the orcs direction. Time afforded no chance to assure her. She must be silent or they would be dead. Her eyes swelled as she struggled; against him and against the leather bindings around her wrists and ankles.
"Eryndes," he breathed urgently, "Hear me, it is I, Legolas."
His words failed to resonate and her sobs were barely muffled by his hand. Her eyes did not meet his. Not meeting anything. They were glazed.
Her mind was absent.
"(See me)," he pleaded, his eyes darting back towards the orcs. "Hear me. Be silent or I will render you unconscious." If he tried to carry this way she would bring every orc down upon them. "See me-" he stopped; desperation had an idea. Drawing deep inside himself to where his primitive magic lived, where the light of the Eldar resided, Legolas stroked at it, stoking it, allowed it to flow through him. Just as when he pushed the talents of his sight, and to contact the spellcaster who had plagued him and the residents of Carthal.
Bending, he rested his head to hers, using all his might as if he could press the light out towards her, "(See me)."
Immediately her struggling stopped. Blinking dizzily, he rose to see her irises expand. The glaze shifted and her eyes came to focus.
"(Be silent)," he commanded, removing his hand from her mouth. She remained unmoving, her eyes widely staring at him. Was she traumatized? Sick? Had the orcs already done something unspeakable to her? Was this exposure sickness? "(Are you hurt)?"
"Legol-?"
He held her mouth closed again, gentler this time. When he was certain of her silence, he cut through the leather bindings with her knife; first her wrists, then her ankles.
The three rangers were already gone and Legolas looked for assurance from Faron. Faron waved the all clear, but threw a shoulder back. Twice.
Hurry! Hurry!
"Hold fast," he warned, threading an arm under her knees, the other around her back. Nothing more than a small soundless cry came from her. Cradling her in his arms, he whispered, "I have you. I will not let you go."
Her filthy fingers tried to pry into the metal of his collar, gripping the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair. She held tightly as she managed, clinging as though drowning and he were the only raft.
His senses attuned to everything in the world that moved, to anything that broke the flow of air, he stood as tall as he dared. If discovered, he could not defend them and live. In as much haste as he could while maintaining stealth, he carried her towards the hill. "(Silence. Or together we die)."