Title: Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter 18: Helm's Deep – Left Adrift

Author: RinoaDestiny

Contact: M

Summary: When Legolas undergoes torture by Orcs and falls into darkness, he questions whether or not he can ever be redeemed. Helm's Deep, alas, just might hold the first key to his troubled questions and perceptions.

Disclaimer: All characters in this fanfic belong exclusively to Tolkien and his estate. I'm just writing what I think would be an interesting take on the trilogy from one or two characters' POVs. Also, some of the direct quotes in this chapter come from the 'Helm's Deep' chapter in The Two Towers.

Author's Note: As I well know, you're all going to kill me and nail my head to a door or spike it on a pike after my long three-year absence. It was very rude of me, and I'm very sorry for it. I can only be grateful that I found some great fanfics on to respark my long-dead LoTR interest. I read them on a whim, and suddenly found myself rekindled – the ember being fanned. But what am I rambling about? Let us continue, and Chapter 18 has a few changes. Namely, Legolas can now use his bow along with his knife, because of a medical error I made a while back. I had his older brother stab him in the left side instead of the collarbone ('cuz that's a fatal wound, so I found out).

Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter XVIII

Rain whipped down upon them, relentless in its natural fury. Drops pinged against the steel helm on the Elf's head, and Legolas brushed aside the sodden strands of hair plastered against his cheeks as he moved, nimbly but consciously guarding his left side. Shortly after lightning split the sky in twain, illuminating their foes below, the storm both above and beneath broke like waves upon the defenders. Sheets of rain, driven like iron barbs from a god's hand, pounded into them. Armor glistened wetly in the torrent, and Legolas kept his footing sure as not to slip on the treacherous stone. At that moment, he was sure Gimli had no such thoughts in his head.

This was the Dwarf's ground, just as surely as the mallorn trees were for him in the Lady's Golden Wood. So it was that when he drew a bead upon any random squirming creature down below, Legolas felt the touch of uncertainty. Not only was he not accustomed to this sprawling fort but an eerie measure of unease like that of a certain Istar's voice wormed its way into his mind, plaguing him even as he loosed the shot. All Orcs were Elves once. He heard this, followed by his defiant cry. You lie! But according to Mithrandir, Saruman had not lied.

Somewhere, in the dark and cold, laid one of those fallen Elves with his arrow in its throat.

The thought sent a shudder running through him.

The deadly whistle of many arrows, gathered together like a furious tempest, sailed down from the Deeping Wall and many found their mark. Legolas smoothly brought forth another shaft, with the full intention of protecting his allies on the battlements. His arrow was one of many that landed with a sickening thud into flesh, while other ill-marked shafts glanced off mail, helms, and shields. A black wave surged towards the gates and the wall, chanting and howling with unholy promises of bloodshed and the promise of utter annihilation.

That promise started with a returning wail of arrows speeding up in a deadly hail of death that slew many where they stood or knelt. Legolas skidded back as quickly as he could on slippery ground upon hearing the sound, but it was a narrow miss. Rohirrim fell, their bright armor stained with blood that the rain soon swept away. Amongst the flashes of lightning, as far as his Elven eyes could see, Legolas witnessed the passing of many noble warriors – their prone bodies testament to the defense of their land, their people, and their king.

In many aspects, it was not so different to his near passing because he had decided to go and save a man of Gondor from impossible odds. It was not a price he had thought of at the time but looking back, he probably would not have restrained himself from such an action. To protect, to serve with all of his abilities, and to aid and cherish those lives around him were his top priorities. His own life paled besides that of the Ringbearer's and in the end, he would have paid it dearly for any one of them.

He held that truth close to his heart, even as it began to break beneath the thoughts of his torment, of that seemingly eternal nightmare that would not cease. Saruman's ill words circled in his mind, taunting him. Orcs were once Elves. This, you cannot deny. He could not banish it; could not, like the final images of his torture, as the Orcs fed off of his fear, relished his pain, and ripped screams from his throat even as they tore into him. He should have died that night. They were once Elves, if you steel yourself against the unpleasantness. He should have died, as all Elves did when violated into such a ruin as this.

Instead, he was here, looking out and seeing a field of the dead, with the rain rolling off him, and the black masses of wild Orcs and men below his feet driven insane with bloodlust. He stood, hesitant, knowing that two of his arrows had ended lives below.

Long time ago, those lives were as sacred as his.

The clarion call of trumpets sounded, startling him; he moved swiftly towards the wall even as reinforcements arrived to flank his sides. From where he stood, the Orcs and the wild men below were advancing towards three locations: the very wall he stood upon with the Rohirrim, the causeway, and the Hornburg-gates that stood a farther apart from them. The Enemy came, charging forward like a dark tide, and as if nature was not indulging herself enough, the sky rendered itself open.

In that moment where dark and light revealed themselves, Legolas spotted the white hand of Isengard scattered across the bulk and width of the forces laid out before them. It gleamed and flickered, silver in stark contrast to the black masses bearing them. Shivering with apprehension, he looked again to see if the Elvish script for 'S' was emblazoned upon those helms and shields. They were not – alas, that did not quell the fear slowly rising in him. The Orcs that had their final sport with him bore those emblems, alike in every shape and appearance. Saruman had stood, watching him writhe and shatter in the wake of brutality, and the last things he saw before his senses dimmed and faded were white robes and painted hands.

Should he fall to these creatures again, he had no doubt of his fate. Death would be merciful but Orcs were not known for mercy. He would not allow himself to become captive again. He knew what they would do.

A cry and arrows rained down, except his as he staggered back, trying to rid that beguiling voice in his head that droned on. Would you so easily kill them, Elf? They are a part of you, whether you deny it or not. Would you raise a hand against your family? Roars emitted violently from beneath their feet, but Legolas glanced wildly from side to side as the sinister words continued. They were Elves once. I have told you as much, foolish princeling. Yet, you were able to cold-bloodedly murder them? Two of your former kin dead by your hand – how much of a warrior that makes you.

"Saruman?" Legolas gasped, his voice lost in the din of battle raging around him. His stomach turned; something was not right. "How did he-" And the answer glared back at him, piercingly bright and equally as dark. He was afraid; Saruman was not dead, and he tried to move, to run as the chaos increased around him and he heard Aragorn's voice. He glanced over, saw Aragorn racing with Éomer towards certain death and doom, and wrested himself from his frozen state.

His feet flew over the slick stones, as he followed the two that he knew and trusted beyond his life – he hoped Gimli was safe – and removed another feathered arrow from his quiver. His hand shook as Saruman's previous words lanced his heart but he would not allow his friends to fight and die without him. He was here for a reason, and it was not to lose himself in madness listening to the accusatory words of that silken-tongued and backstabbing Maia.

No matter how much the truth hurt.

Men died around him, whether from black-feathered arrows or perilous darts. Rain rippled around his shod feet in patterns, washing away the dust, grime, and gore of this battle. Orcs and Rohirrim screamed from mortal wounds received, fury, revenge, or from the Men of the Mark alone, heartbreak. The sky broke, waging its own war, sending jagged light in their direction. He ran, with the endurance of his kind through a postern-door and so intent was he on escaping his inner struggle that when two voices rang in unison, the Elf started, placing his arrow on the string.

"Gúthwinё!" The nephew of the King of Rohan raised a glimmer of light from his sheath in one smooth motion. "Gúthwinё for the Mark!"

As if rehearsed from a player's act, the man that Legolas knew and trusted so well did the same. The sword shone like a bright beacon in this accursed darkness. "Andúril! Andúril for the Dúnedain!"

Aragorn, Éomer, the swordsmen that they had rallied, and he charged headlong into the fray. It was easier for him because none of the enemies he faced were Orcs; else, he doubted the killing intent of his shots. These were wild men with beards crawling on their roaring faces and crude implements of war in their belts. Twin battering rams thudded loudly into the threatened gates as their blades thrust and swung into the crunch of bone. Legolas saw men fall in gouts of jetted crimson; others collapsed to the stony ramp with his mark in their throats or chest. Always go for the head, the throat, and the heart during battle, my son. All else will endanger the lives of those around you, and yourself. It was an important lesson that his father insisted he take to heart, and as he neared the gates for close combat, his knife flashed out of its sheath.

Shouts carried from voice to voice, from one man to another as morale rose among the beleaguered defenders. "Andúril! Andúril goes to war. The Blade that was Broken shines again!" Andúril shone, united with the gleaming blades of Éomer, the hardy sword craft of the Rohirrim with them, and that of his which quickly dispatched lives beyond the circles of the world. Blood and rain rippled at his feet, indistinguishable in the dark. The rams fell with a wooden thud as faces turned to acknowledge them, weapons were drawn, and shields lowered to block their advance. There, in the slippery wetness, Legolas uncoiled into action, darting gracefully yet lethally through the darkly armored masses. Soft flesh gave beneath the sharpness of his blade; he turned to dodge an attack aimed at his left side, whirling out of the direction of the strike.

It resulted in the fatal plunge of a man down into the abyss, his scream abruptly ended as he struck bottom. Many others joined his fate, harried to the brink by bloodied swords and bright eyes full of daring and courage. Those who turned to fight were impaled or cloven in twain, their arms useless. Shields clattered to the ramp as their slain holders forfeited life. Legolas glimpsed the fleeing backs of some of the survivors, along with the erratic flight of black-feathered quarrels. There was no need to retreat, for they fell short of their targets. Escaping Orcs garbled in their tongue, leaving them standing before the gates.

It was a successful defense.

The Elven archer reflected on the losses tallied here, and glanced at the sky. Elbereth had graced this chaotic night with her stars, which flickered their brilliant light above his head like a blessing from a Vala to one of the Firstborn. Lightning illuminated the passes of the South; the storm lessened. He stepped forward, keeping his eyes on the sight of the golden curves of the moon meandering its way through the fragile clouds. Buoyed by the omnipresent signs of those he revered, Legolas felt some of his anxiety slip away. Saruman's cutting words whispered still, but for now their power ebbed and left him with some peace.

Then, Aragorn spoke and his attention turned elsewhere. "We did not come too soon." The gates were damaged, albeit not severely. Legolas stepped closer to the huddle of bodies, keeping his focus on the skewed and twisted hinges and bars. This, they could not fix before the night was over. If they survived this battle, perhaps. If not – well, they would all be beyond the circles of the world and the Hornburg would become a ruin, testament to the last stand of Men and some of the other Free Peoples. But if they fell, the Ringbearer's quest lay in peril. Legolas knelt to look closely at the splintered beams, surveying the work the battering rams inflicted.

It would not be able to withstand any more, he thought. Should the gates fall, we do as well.

"Yet we cannot stay here beyond the walls to defend them." All of their heads rose, in one with Éomer's voice. "Look!" Following the outstretched length of the man's mailed arm, Legolas spotted a seething dark mass that slowly advanced from the causeway. Quarrels fletched with black feathers skittered on the stones, glancing harmlessly off the ramp. Any more delay on their part, and stricken they would be. "Come! We must get back and see what we can do to pile stone and beam across the gates within. Come now!"

Legolas straightened in one fluid movement, wincing as pain jolted his left side. Leaning against the gates, he refused Aragorn's hand, knocking it aside and fixing the Heir of Isildur with a firm gaze. Should I die, it is of no concern to the wellbeing of Middle-earth. Should you fall, son of Arathorn, you give to Sauron the victory! Save yourself! That, and the Elven prince sought no aid, for this was merely a trifle. The Ranger reluctantly left him – that was when fate unleashed one of her snares.

Éomer fell.

Tripped, more like and by Orcs who deviously hid themselves among the dead and dying. "Éomer!" He barely cried out before one of the Orcs lunged forward, leaping over the sprawled bodies of the Dunlendings, one mailed hand lashing out to snap his neck. Legolas ducked under it. Hissing, the creature seized him before he could recover, slamming his back into the gates. Disoriented by the sudden bloom of discomfort in his side, he stared into the Orc's eyes, which blazed wickedly in the moonlit darkness. They were once Elves who had never seen the light of the Two Trees. One of the Avari – one of his own. The knowledge ached in his heart.

Dare you strike one of your own?

No. Yes. He could not decide. His knife lay useless in his hand.

"Legolas!" Aragorn's sword cleaved through the darkness, through gristle and gore, through the torso of the Orc, and the halved pieces fell at his feet. Black blood splattered onto his mail and stained the stones. There was no rain to wash this filth off him. Stumbling away from the gates, he clenched his teeth as his side burned. "Legolas! What ails you?"

"'Tis but a minor ache."

"Do not be so stubborn, my friend. It pains you."

"I am still able to fight," he grit through his teeth. Stepping forward as if nothing happened, he looked behind him, noting Gimli's presence. Two decapitated Orcs lay slain where the Dwarf's axe claimed them. Aragorn had gone forward to aid the nephew of the King of the Mark, and he gamely strode on, ignoring the hammering in his chest. He also ignored the strange expressions on the Men's faces, at their realization that he had foregone his chance to kill. In turn, he nearly faced the Halls of Mandos. One foot at a time, one after the other on the narrow path, despite the throbbing in his body, and Legolas breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed treacherous ground.

The others were not far behind him. Éomer swung the postern-door shut, Aragorn barred it, and Gimli – dear Gimli – heaped stones against it. Fatigued by the voice that was starting to gnaw on his conscience, his near death experience, and the wound his brother gave him, he silently stood and observed the surroundings. Gimli had saved Éomer's life, trying to banish sleep; the Man of the Mark mentioned something about repayment of this debt. Just as he owed a debt to Aragorn for saving him during a time of conflict but the man was nowhere to be found. The other swordsmen left them to return to their duties on the wall, and the Elf felt alone.

"Master Legolas, how many did you kill ere this night is over?"

Ah, but there was still Gimli! "No, how many fell to your axe, my stout friend?"

The Dwarf opened his mouth, only to snap it shut. His eyes glimmered with veiled concern. "Let us join them on the wall, Legolas. You might have need of it – you are hurt."

"It is nothing but a scratch. You need not concern yourself."

"From the way you carry yourself, I say I should," Gimli curtly replied. "You move not with your usual elegance, Legolas. Why did you hesitate in killing that Orc? It would have killed you if Aragorn did not come to your aid." Gimli's mailed hand, unlike that of the Orc's, closed gently around his and pulled him forward. "Come on. Let us not linger here."

Gimli was right. The Dwarf saw through his stoicism, right into the distress that halted his steps. Pressing his lips together, Legolas forced himself to move. There was no warmth soaking his tunic, yet the injury Mornereg inflicted cut sharply into him. He wondered if the wounded and maimed Teleri at Aqualondë felt this betrayal of their flesh after the massacre. Did they survive their grief, after the seizure and rape of their ships, which the Noldo Fëanor burned? Then, like the crack of a whip inflaming his back, he staggered beneath the enormity of his situation. How could he defend himself in this state?

Consider it justice for what you have done to your people, kinslayer. He was suddenly aware of his pallor, leaving him shaking and pale. Kinslayers are not held in high regard, young Elf. It would be better if you killed yourself, rather than face the wrath and judgment of the Valar. No, kinslayers were not the epitome of honor; Legolas learned that early on. It was bitter knowledge, considering what his eldest brother had done, and what he now faced. Yes, misguided Elf. Slay another – add it to your tally and proclaim yourself a hero.

No. Yes. No. Orcs were once Elves, twisted by cruelty, darkness, and hate. In their current guises, they were nothing more than snarling, brutal foes to be vanquished. Killed without a second thought. If any spark of gentleness or Elvish light glowed within, it was hidden by Melkor and Sauron's enshrouding sorcery. Darkness wrapped around them, strangling any remnant of their former beauty and glory. It stripped them of all joy in living, transforming that into a hatred for all life. His knees felt weak.

"Legolas!"

Ai Elbereth! That was what he would become!

Gimli's gruff baritone barked out in alarm. "Foolish Elf! Legolas – before you!" Thrust into battle once more; driven by Gimli's cry, he wielded his blade before him in time to see sparks flying from the clash of steel. He paled at how closely death brushed him yet a second time. Bestial eyes rolled in wrinkled sockets – the Orc grunted; its sword glinting in the faint starlight. His hand trembling, Legolas warily stepped back. The Orc shuffled forward, its haunches oozing from the bite of a Dwarven axe. They were equally hindered; he from the lancing fire in his side, and the fell creature from Gimli's offense. In those eyes from which he could see nothing but hatred and destruction, Legolas sought to find an inkling of Elvish awareness. The edge of a black blade crashed into the slender flat of his, forcing him back.

There was nothing kind in those eyes. Nothing at all.

Crying out from frustration and the futility of his plight, he shoved back, tumbling the Orc to the wet sheen of stone below. The fell blade thrust past his shoulder as he descended, scraping into the joined rings of his mail. In a thrice, he was upon his foe, baring its gullet to the shining edge of his notched blade. The Orc hissed and screeched. To Legolas' shame, his grip lessened on the handle. Take me not as a kinslayer, Ilúvatar. Guilt raged and redemption bowed its head, for the deed was done before he knew it.

With his hand, by his blade, in front of him lay the slaughter.

It matters not whether Ilúvatar takes you for a kinslayer. An Istar's voice, soft, all whispers yet laden with the truth and poison of all of his years. Did you not know, Legolas, son of Thranduil? You are a kinslayer, or you would not seek absolution. So it was, rising to his feet, gazing down at the kill he now claimed; he heard himself ask how many Gimli slew. Hatred against the Orcs, against Saruman, against Sauron, and against himself overwhelmed him. He faintly heard Gimli's enthusiastic reply.

"Two!" The Dwarf patted the much-worn axe head, glancing up to meet his eyes.

He forced a smile. "Two?" Hiding his turmoil behind a solid composure – well-honed by the politics of his father's court, no less – he bantered on. "I have done better, though now I must grope for spent arrows; all mine are gone. Yet I make my tale twenty at the least. But that is only a few leaves in a forest." In a forest of deaths and dying that boded ill for him since his weaknesses were apparent. Bowing his head, he stared morosely at the fallen, then plunged himself recklessly into the never-ending night of war and strife.

His wound still burned in time to the beat of his fugitive heart.

Ilúvatar, forgive me.

Thranduil stormed toward one of the many dungeons in his realm. It was not daily when a high Elf-lord, one of the Noldor, and Glorfindel no less, rode into his kingdom with his eldest in tow. Mornereg, condemned by the word of his brother and that of the Elves in Imladris, was under scrutiny. One of his sons bore the guilt of kinslaying, or near to it, if it was not for the staying hand of Nimthôn. Legolas had been stabbed with his own knife, Glorfindel told him as he delivered his burden into his hands. If not for the skills of Elrond, Legolas would have bled to death in one of the Elven shelters of Arda.

'Tis not what I sent you to do! To plan foul murder against one of your own! "Go upstairs and leave me with my son," he snapped to the guards, whom promptly gathered their gear and left. One of the younger wardens, wide-eyed, glanced quickly at him before he descended the steps that led down to the many cells where seventy years ago, he had imprisoned some Dwarves. Tonight, the very presence of his eldest stirred his blood raging hot. He stopped before one of the locked wooden doors and gazed into furious grey eyes.

"Father – are you here to grace me with your presence?"

The scorn in his son's voice was hard and cutting. "You will not address one of your elders with that kind of tongue, Mornereg. You will hold your silence until I demand that you speak. You know what I am down here for."

"Of course. You want answers. You want me to admit what I have done." Through the square window small enough only to permit a man's face, the faint gleam of dark hair accompanied a stubborn shake of an arrogant Elven head. "I am afraid, though, ada, that my answers will not satisfy your curiosity."

"Silence!" His nails embedded half-moons into the flesh of his palms as he clenched his fists. "Why did you attempt to kill your brother?"

A thread of laughter wove itself around them. "Ah, yes – I thought he was the center of your concern. You see, Father – Legolas is no longer the son that you should love. He is tainted by darkness, and has become one of them. Should I not blot out such a blemish on our house?"

"Have you not heard of the arrogance that led to the first kinslaying of our people?"

"You taught it to us, ada."

"And?" Thranduil gazed hard into those eyes that mirrored his own fury. "Have you learned naught?"

Mornereg shrugged. "They did wrong, plundering ships that were not theirs for the taking. What I did was to spare you and the rest of our house from horror and dread. It is within my right as the eldest."

"What horror and dread would Legolas have brought back to these woods?"

"Last I saw him, he was in Orcish shape. Is that creature the kind you want trampling around our fair dominion?" Anger seethed through Mornereg's words, revealing itself in the knot on his brow. "Do you want to see that fell thing in your halls? How can you trust such a thing? Legolas is dead, Father! Persuasion falls hard on your ears; yet, your son is no more!"

Glorfindel's counsel ere he left his kingdom told otherwise of Legolas' plight; Thranduil knew that much. "So, you in your folly, spilt blood in Imladris despite the anguish your brother suffered? You do not know, nor understand of his suffering! Ilúvatar take you should you persist in your enmity! My sons were not raised to kill one of their own."

"Oh, I understand his suffering well enough, Father. The Orcs had their way with him, in all matters of their foul delight. His reticence betrays him."

"I was there to see his wounds. Do not presume to tell me what you know."

"You still love him?" Disbelief cracked his son's tremulous voice. "You are willing to bring back here, to our kingdom, one so battered and fouled that his very presence will upset the ways of our court? How will you explain to your subjects that Legolas, son of Thranduil, has been reduced to a wretch? Will you show them his scars? His temperance of mind?" Then, disbelief folded to renewed spite. "How can you still love one such as him?"

"Because he is my son, your brother, and your late mother's child." It was not difficult to match Mornereg's wrath. His late father, Oropher, had very much the same disposition; without a doubt, Thranduil knew that he bore the traits of his sire, and so did his children. One of them stayed the night in Imladris under the counsel of Elrond; another dear to him fought for the sake of Middle-earth; and this last child, rebellious and nigh treasonous, glared at him as if he had been betrayed. The irony of that would have amused Thranduil if the matter at hand was not utterly dire. "Your brother, whom you hate, is not a kinslayer unlike yourself. Only his forgiveness will release you from these walls."

Mornereg turned his back. "That weakling will not forgive me."

"You will not speak ill of your brother whilst you dwell in my halls." The Elven king turned on his heel, ready to leave. The coldness in his eldest son's eyes grieved him. "I will leave you to ponder on your act, my son. Perhaps isolation will change your mind."

"Very well, ada. If you insist."

With that echoing in his ears, Thranduil ascended the stairs, back into light and melancholy song.

The enemy kept coming, swarming past the Deeping Wall with the help of ladders and grappling hooks. The fleet-footed Elf ran his bloodied blade over one of the many ropes, and was rewarded with the shrieks of the fallen. Still, they came, black and terrible, bearing death and menace to all those defending the besieged fort. Aragorn, Éomer, and the Men of the Mark swept over them like a shining wave, only to be beaten back by sheer numbers. The slaughter continued, the bodies turned into mountains, and the night never seemed to end.

Elbereth, give me strength! Killing the Orcs had gotten no easier than before. With each swift descent of that glittering edge, an Orc stumbled at his feet. Black blood ran messily down his mail, branding him as one of their killers. It seemed to burn into him – each creature's snarl pained his ears; every plunge of the knife shattered his heart. Kinslayer – that insidious voice chanted. Kinslayer, for every tally you engrave into your game. There were too many Orcs overwhelming them; he had no choice but to slay or be slain.

It was a cruel choice.

Adding to the three he killed earlier, his count of slain Orcs reached about two dozen. Should Gimli ask again for a revision of those numbers, he would have to retract his sum of twenty. Seventeen men of Dunland and only three Orcs prior to this fresh assault. Legolas was sure the Dwarf only counted Orcs into the final tally – it was a challenge he would have enjoyed, if not for what he knew. Elves twisted into Melkor's army, sent out to destroy all that was fair and good. And he, should his will fail, would become as one of them if only by shape.

By Ilúvatar's grace – not here. Not now.

Behind him, a clamour of shouting, ringing steel, and whinnying joined the commotion. Whirling, he saw the signs of ambush and the amusing sight of Gimli's stout form barreling from the wall into the Deep. A raised axe crunched into a helmed head, adding another to his companion's list of kills. "Khazâd! Khazâd!" The stentorian bellow blasted past the din, rising to the beleaguered wall where he stood. "Ai-oi!" Flipping his weapon, Legolas backhandedly stabbed an Orc encroaching on his periphery, aware that any distraction could leave him for dead. "The Orcs are behind the wall. Ai-oi! Come, Legolas! There are enough for us both! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

There was no need to join Gimli in the Deep. Sidestepping a spear thrust, he leapt into the range of the baffled Orc. His forgotten shield smashed into the ugly visage, breaking his foe's balance. Even as the Orc grappled for its spear, he stepped on it, rendering the polearm null. Blackened lips drew back, revealing jagged and yellow teeth as the Orc hissed and spat. "Snaga!"

He spun around, buckler at the ready. A spearhead skittered off the round metal boss, skewering into wood. The Orc opposing him sickeningly grinned. "Elf," it said, and his world flattened into a miasma of pain that tore into his left. His foot slipped, driving his knee hard into unforgiving stone. Throwing his arm back out of reflex, he heard the dull thud of it pound the Orc behind him even as his head jerked skywards. Clawed fingers clenched around his neck, raising him while his helm was roughly discarded to the side with a clatter of metal. Foul breath poured into his face, sending his senses reeling. "So it was you who killed our captain," the monster snarled, tightening its hold. "Die, then."

Legolas gasped as his throat constricted. Kinslayer.

The long white knife, limp in his hand, curled within the confines of his weakened digits.

Strike! Slay them! Legolas, act!

As if underwater, he felt his arm rise; blade eager for blood.

They were once Elves, foolish princeling. Kill them, and be damned for the rest of your years.

He pushed, driving the insatiable edge through mail and flesh. Felt the wetness of gore, the unmistakable grind of gristle and bone, and the sloppy slice of vital organs. With a dying howl, the Orc flung him aside. Grimacing as he collapsed in a sprawl of limbs, Legolas inhaled, tasting the air that filled his wracked lungs. Through seared eyes, he glimpsed the corpse of the Orc that had struck him from behind. Struggling to his feet, he limped over to the grotesque thing he had killed and wrested his knife from its ribs. It relinquished its grasp wetly, smeared the whole length with fetid gore and matter. Was it an enemy or a tormented being that lay before him? A moment ago, it was killing him.

Yet. Yet –

Shaking his head, Legolas met the worried eyes of Aragorn and Éomer. Brushing aside the Dúnedan's outstretched arm, he dragged himself over to an unoccupied spot on the wall, where he promptly settled himself. Dizziness swamped him, drowning out his thoughts even as he opened his pack to remove a whetting stone. If only that Orc had not smashed his spear haft into his damaged body. If only Mornereg had not attempted to kill him prior to this important battle. The night was far from over, and he was slowly deteriorating. Soon, he would become a danger to himself.

That did not bode well at all.

"Legolas, you need treatment. You are hurt." Dark eyes swollen with anxiety fixed onto his. "Please, my friend. Do not do this to yourself." Aragorn flanked his right. Éomer soon joined him on his left. "I do not wish to see you dead."

"Aragorn is right, Legolas. While it is quiet, let us treat you."

Flat stone scraped smoothly across steel, polishing away the first of the visible notches on the blade's edge. "I can handle myself, Aragorn. Let me do this if only for the sake of my pride." He left unsaid what Aragorn already knew. Let me regain my dignity that I lost during the skirmish at Emyn Muil. Let me prove to myself that I still am a warrior, despite all that befell me. One forward and backward stroke at a time, making his weapon whole for the next wave of attack when this lull ceased. For himself, the process took longer, and may take the rest of his immortal years. Whatever it took, he was going to regain his fëa from nightmares and shadows.

This was a beginning to the end.

"Twenty-one!"

Gimli brandishing his axe usually awed and amused him, for the short warrior was formidable. Sharpening his knife, he gazed at the friend he had made in Lothlórien, and found he could not smile in enjoyment. His tally hung in front of him like a list of sins, and he could not fathom why, after all of this time, he still accused himself of wrongdoing. "Good!" For Gimli's sake, Legolas tried to put up a front. "But my count is two dozen. It has been knife-work up here." That much was true.

His resolve took a precarious step back, trembling.

Kinslayer.

Every measured stroke sounded like a knell of judgment to his ears.

Kinslayer.

Oh, Valar – forgive me for what I have done!

Kinslayer.