Chapter four: Helm's Deep
Warning: Confusing words. Maybe OOC of a lot of people. Bad-ass Legolas killing people left right and center. May contain traces of: a lot of blood, Sindarin, irregular updates, idiotic author notes, confusing plot lines. Major spoilers from The Two Towers on-wards.
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The Battle for Helm's Deep and the survival of Rohan wasn't over yet.
The tired army hastily conjured saw a beam of hope when the Rohirrim came charging down the hill with Gandalf at their lead, radiant and staff raised, charging with the dawn's light unto the massive army of orcs. A glimmer of hope shone in every warrior's faces as they charged with renewed vitality.
They drove the orcs to the thick vengeance emitted by the massive Fangorn Forest, where the trees creaked and cracked and the orcs that almost destroyed the men of Rohan was no more than a distant painful memory. They have victory, after a long night of blood shed, gore and sweat. There should be a feast, songs, laments for the honoured dead and happy reunions with their scared family inside the caves.
But the danger has not passed.
On the same East cliff the hope for the people of Rohan flew down on horses, baring spears and banners and swords that glinted in the warm sun's light. The once warm rays now turned cold and fearful, easily distinguishing the rare hope in the warriors' heart as easy as putting out a candle left outside on a stormy night.
On the cliff side stood Agarlas Sardotherin, the Dark Lord's lieutenant, the Prince of Mordor.
The Prince could certainly be beautiful if not for his reputation and the ever changing darkness that pulsed like waves and the shadows that leaked from the nearby trees rocks, turning into wraith like beings behind him. A black half helm covered his eyes, where only long flowing black hair that fell to his waist could venture into. Pale skin and thin lips. Long fingers grasping the reins of a flaming horse, hands skilled at cutting open throats and ending another life of a proclaimed enemy.
All of the free people of Middle Earth often wondered how many foe Agarlas had slain, how many rivers had the prince and assassin turned to crimson, how many flowers and leaves turn red by splattered blood. Like his name, blood leaf.
The fearful name Agarlas surfaced to Middle Earth 70 years ago. It's reputation spread far and wide. Small towns and villages were destroyed and often set up in flames, all of the innocents killed all have a small blood splattered leaf left on their chest. Aragorn had seen it with his own eyes the fallen elf that gave his very soul to Sauron could do, how many innocent man he had killed without even trying.
Innocents, or so all of them thought.
The Dunedain came across a seaside village, with plenty of orchards and poultry that always had the lingering scent of salt. It was a peaceful day, the streets filled with merchants and children, running and selling and laughing at the top of their voice, they all sound a bit false to the rangers' ears, but they paid it no mind. The Dunedain smiled amongst themselves, turned around and left, only Aragorn remained behind, and the mask crumbled.
There were fights, violence, liquor foul to the nose. Children shrieked, smacked by sharp wands made from willow trees. The change was so drastic and sudden that Aragron could not even begin to comprehend. It turned cold and dark, people opened their doors and peeked outside, they don't like change and Aragorn retreated to the to the safe shade of a nearby alley to watch and wait.
That was where it erupted. Shadows and darkness.
It passed Aragorn with only a small pause in its steps. The darkness was like the sea, tumbling out like waves, crushing houses and destroying market stalls, snatching and devouring man and woman like it was nothing, like it was a sentient being. The shadows became wraith like beings, seeping into cowering nobles and merchants and turning them inside out. The children were mostly spared, some woman too, and they fled.
When the blood had started to turn brown and flaky, when the screams of horrified men were driven out of his mind, Aragorn looked around and saw him. Darkness coiled around him like an obedient servant, waiting for its master's command, the shadow wraith almost whispered something in the prince's ear, he paused. He dipped his helmed head in acknowledgement when he found the alley Aragorn stood in, threw something into the air, spurred his horse, and was gone.
Aragorn recoiled as if someone had struck him when he saw the object that landed in the middle of the blood soaked street. It was a small branch with only three bright green leaves stuck to the brown twig, quickly turning red and some spots brown in the pools of crimson that dotted the cobblestone street.
He was a terrifying sight to behold on top of the hill that overlooked the decimated seaside village, standing much like how he did now, staring down at a bettered army through his black helm as if contemplating the fastest way to stick an arrow in between all of their eyes.
Aragorn wondered again as he stared, why would an elf betray the light his race fought so vehemently to protect. He felt fear, in the moving shadows, in the traitorous elf. Agarlas was an elven name, he did not dwell long on it, it would be quite foolish to let hope dominated his every being. He surprised himself with this, he thought he had given up hope for his once time friend and confidant. After all this time, it seems, hope never left.
The question What does he want and the plea Please don't attack was on everyone's mind as they gazed at the solitary figure. Aragorn could see the shadows getting impatient, Agarlas tilted his head, shifting his long black hair slightly and the shadow calmed and retreated.
"What do you seek here Agarlas?" Gandalf asked, his voice never wavered in the cold silence, raising his white staff slightly hinger than he normally would need. The was something in the wizard's ageing voice, something Aragorn could not identify, something akin to hope.
The prince tilted his helmed head again, his horse reared slightly, sharp fangs showing and baring at the now white wizard. "I seek to speak with you, Gandalf the White, and you alone." His voice was silky, like the smooth side of a coffin, unwelcome to disagreement, cold to hear, to touch. Somehow, that soft voice did not quite belong to the Prince of Mordor, but the prince of somewhere else.
The lost Prince of Mirkwood.
Gandalf bowed his head slightly, "Very well, the forest then." The prince nodded, gave a warning like look to the blackness behind him. It curled in upon itself, as if to sulk, then dissipated.
Everyone let out a breath they did not realise they were holding.
"Gandalf..." Aragorn started, not wanting and not liking a single bit about the current situation. Even without the blackness behind him, Agarlas was too dangerous, too powerful. He was an elf, so the trees of Fangorn Forest was also a rogue element.
Gandalf flashed him a grandfatherly smile, half hidden behind his white beard, and spurred his horse to the forest. Agarlas had already disappeared into its boughs sometimes before.
There was a tense silence as the warriors made their way back to the fortress of Helm's Deep, on guard and fearing the outcome of the little talk with their magical saviour. Until only Theoden, Eomir and Aragorn himself remained outside. The Rohirrim would intermediately charge out if there was even a scent of wraith or moving blackness from the wild forest.
They all waited with baited breath, giving half an ear to listen to the sounds inside the walls. There's swords unsheathing and javelins thrusting, silencing the still breathing orcs inside the barely standing fortress.
Then...
There was the familiar gallop of Gandalf's white stallion, taking the practically glowing wizard out from the currently not so mentally stable forest. There was no blood, no wound, no gash in sight, there was also no prince.
Aragorn wondered again about the mysterious and powerful Prince of Mordor, and the effect he has on people.
Gandalf did nothing to hide the radiant and ...smug? smile that crossed his lips. His white robes even whiter and even more blazing than before. How?
"What did you talk about?" Aragorn asked. He had seen Gandalf this bright only when he had the riders of Rohan and the dawn's light behind him as he practically flew down the East cliff to the death of the orcs bellow and the aid of them all.
The wizard only flashed him a muysterious smile and gave a "You'll find out soon enough."
PoM
Legolas spurred his horse, commanding it to go faster through the ancient trees of Fangorn. It seems the ecstatic nature of Gandalf the Grey did not fade when he turned to Gandalf the White. He needed to get to Mirkwood, the forest near the Lonely Mountain, almost on the other side of this land.
The war to the white towers of Gondor is coming, the Dark Lord is preparing his army to march on Minas Tirith. He needs to convince the Elvenking Thranduil to help, to fight, to form an alliance with the race he so despised. Even if the battle in front of the white towers are won, there's no chance to say the ring bearer could complete this task. The prince of Mordor himself avoid walking through the black realm if he could help it, even with shadows and darkness by his side.
The shadows tells him many things, so does the tress if he can convince him of his origin. They told him about the council in Imladris to decide the fate of the One Ring. They told him about the Fellowship's adventure through the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria and the lost of the grey wizard. They told him of Isengard, the two hobbits there and the rebirth of the grey one. They told him of weakness in the black gates of Mordor, of the madness dwelling in the steward of Gondor, of Boromir's death at the orcs he had not slaughtered.
Most importantly, the shadows told him about Mirkwood, about the patrols and spider nests that plagued the once beautiful realm of elves. Sauron had point blank forbidden him from coming even close to Mirkwood's borders. The tortures and 'lessons' were still fresh in his mind that day when the Dark Lord bellowed that order, so Legolas stayed away.
Gandalf had told him what he wanted to know, and he had given the wizard as much information as he could. He no longer feared his master. The end is near, the Ring bearer was already half way to Mordor with the creature Gollum as his guide, the battle is Minas Tirith would end in defeat or victory, and the free people of Middle Earth will make their last stand in front of the black gates of the dark land, for freedom or death.
He doubt he could see either the death of them all, or the death of his master.
He would see Mordor fall, or die trying.
After 70 years of darkness, pain and sometimes hard earned solitude, Legolas Thranduilion, not the name he created for himself to be close to the one he could not have, was going home.
It's just a question of whether or not, he can stay.
A/N: Here we are, starting for the past. I'm using the movie version of LOTR, I have read the books but thought it would be a bit too confusing for some. Including myself. I recently had an obsession to princes, so bear with me and blame Severus Snape.
You know Prince of Mirkwood has the same initials as Prince of Mordor
English is not my first language, since I lived in China for 12 years. I apologize for any mistakes in grammar, punctuation and the tenses category.
Reviews are very welcome. Updates will be soon be irregular.