Title: Shadows Amongst the Leaves
Chapter 19: Helm's Deep – Song of the Dawn
Author: RinoaDestiny
Contact: M
Disclaimer: All characters in this fanfic belong exclusively to Tolkien and his estate – minus made-up ones like Thranduil's two other sons and court members. I'm just writing what I think would be an interesting take on the trilogy from multiple 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: I'm doing more canon research, and have acquired Morgoth's Ring from the HoME series so that I can understand the ways of the Eldar better. That, combined with The Silmarillion and Unfinished Tales gives me a better glimpse of the intricate mythology and history Tolkien created. Also, expect updates in increments of months instead of yearly stretches, now. Working on two fanfics at once gave me huge incentive to pick up on both, with this being one of them. And once again, quality over quantity – it's really exhausting but worth it all in the long run. Let me know if my style got sloppy in this one - breaks on long stories tend to kill my overall voice after a while.
Shadows Amongst the Leaves
Chapter IXX
The lull was brief; their rest short, cut asunder by greater forces of evil and chaos that milled beneath their feet. The gleaming sword of Andúril, relegated from being a cane for one battle-weary Ranger to that of a smiting blade, crashed down like a falling star. The Deeping Wall no longer stood intact, broken as it were from Saruman's cunning devilry. Darkness streamed in as if separating from nightfall, only hideous because of the cacophony of steel and barbarian grunts that shattered the peaceful silence. Wielding his sword double handedly, Aragorn glimpsed an Orc head fly into the bloody wreckage before spinning around to face a mob of bloodthirsty monsters and wild men. Around him, the Rohirrim fought back-to-back, with captains splintering away to direct help to grievously pressed allies.
Parry. Side step and take the advantage. Draw back, pivot, resume. Guard the front; watch the back; keep eyes open to the sides. Years of martial training beneath the tutelage of his foster father, Elrond, and the sprinkling of Elvish wisdom by the great lord Glorfindel kept his senses sharp and his arm strong. Hewing down a creature that tried to escape the wrath of a Rohirric blade, Aragorn jerked his face aside as black blood squirted upwards. He would have to clean himself of this gore once this battle ended. His Elven brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, oft returned from a massive slaughtering of Orcs drenched in filth, which they promptly washed off before presenting themselves before their father. It seemed common enough to them – pittance for the violence done to their mother and the grief to their sire. Since that day, the Last Homely House bore both tears and laughter. Elrond's sons, fey in their fury, took their vengeance elsewhere.
Another half-circle swing, complete down to the body he left behind as their defense broke. Gimli had disappeared into the Deep, now showing the strength of the Dwarves with the full mettle of his axe. Unable to reach him, the Dúnadan joined the flood of men racing towards the shelter of the citadel. Behind him followed a dark tide of howling Orcs and fierce Dunlendings. Soon, the outskirts of the Hornburg would fall to them, staked by their banners and manned by their captains and troops. Anyone left outside of the inner defenses would be forsaking their lives, yet this was exactly what he did. Turning to face the legions behind him, he outstretched his sword to warn them not to cross. This would give ample time to the men racing up the stairs towards the sanctuary of the tower; as for him, he barricaded the first step.
Aragorn felt somewhat akin to Gandalf confronting the Balrog, though the terror was less.
Then, amazingly, a clear voice penetrated that silence – this calm before the storm. "All who can have now got safe within, Aragorn." Unmistakably Elvish with its lilting quality, it was also unmistakably a weary Legolas who spoke. "Come back!"
Deciding to ask the Elf later how he managed to fight his way up the stairs in his condition, Aragorn whirled about and sprinted towards the beckoning door of the citadel. The distance lengthened even as his footfalls echoed noisily in his ears, and he wondered how he was ever going to make it. Above him, the kneeling figure of Legolas nocked his bow, directing its lethal path downwards. Aragorn could not help but think about the accuracy of his friend's shot, for since Legolas found out that devastating truth, the Ranger had seen his fortitude waver. He had seen the hand of death brush by the Elf more than he would have liked in this battle, and when he disappeared with the breaking of the lull, he feared for him. Yet, Legolas now manned high ground while he tried to approach it.
Then, whether out of weariness or ill chance, he tripped and stumbled.
It should have been his death with the screaming horde behind him. Fiendish howls and yells caterwauled as the Orcs scrambled, shoving each other aside to claim their prize; in that moment, Aragorn knew death laid its hand upon him. Mailed arms reached out to grab him, to drag him down, and to smite him 'til he lay dead at their feet. He had no chance to turn, to fend for himself. It should have been his doom – his last stand before his forcible descent beyond the circles of the world.
It should have been, and it was not.
A Rohirric arrow, fletched with red and copper feathers, thudded into a swarthy throat, crumpling the Orc behind him. Giving thanks that his Elven companion aimed true, he surmounted those steps – with the resounding crash of a boulder rolling down being an additional reinforcement – and advancing upon the upper stairs, glimpsed Legolas' pale face before they both closed the door on the defeated world behind them.
Oromë, Lord of Forests and the great hunter, let me not err! This, he had cried in his heart as he released the shaft that would determine Aragorn's life or death. When the bolt hit, knocking back the Orc closest to Aragorn, Legolas sighed in relief. He feared the trembling of his hand, of the lessening of his draw but the Vala was with him. The strike had killed one that would have slain his companion, if it lived. The answering call of a large stone followed his blow, and the steps below erupted into squeals, grunts, and animalistic howling. The Ranger soon hastened behind his steps, face drawn and haggard. Those perceiving eyes glanced at him briefly, only to turn aside as they slammed the door shut, barring it.
Legolas released his end of the wooden beam, focusing worriedly on Aragorn. The other man raised his sleeve, wiping sweat off his glistening face. "Things go ill, my friends." If it were anything as ill as Aragorn nearly losing his life, Legolas would have choked with fear. He nearly did, perched there on the upper steps, watching the commotion below. If his aim was false; if he released the arrow a second too late –
Instead, Aragorn stood here with him. He was safe. He had done his task. "Ill enough," he replied, raising his brow, "but not yet hopeless, while we have you with us. Where is Gimli?"
"I do not know," Aragorn counter replied. "I last saw him fighting on the ground behind the wall, but the enemy swept us apart."
A fierce chill seized him, opening the sluice-gates of his blood. Veiling his shock, he merely shook his head. "Alas! That is evil news." He need not hide the horror in his voice, for it raged through him as ice. Numbly, he looked at Aragorn, hoping for a word of consolation. When the lull broke, the numbers set upon them were many. Their circle shattered as each went to the defense of others, with Gimli hacking Orcs on route to the Deep. Éomer accompanied the Dwarf, whilst Aragorn and he battled their way towards the citadel. Limping, hardly steady on his whirling feet, he fought viciously to attain high ground where the dark mass beneath could not reach him. His side ached; his breath came hard and short, and he collapsed to his knees as he approached the upper stairs. His body trembled, and then he saw. Saw, and reached for his gleaned last arrow.
And so. "He is stout and strong," his friend said, gently placing a begrimed hand on his shoulder. "Let us hope that he will escape back to the caves. There he would be safe for a while. Safer than we. Such a refuge would be to the liking of a dwarf."
It would be. "That must be my hope," he said, feeling more confident concerning Gimli's plight. "But I wish that he had come this way. I desired to tell Master Gimli that my tale is now thirty-nine." Another tally of fifteen Orcs to his list of kills, all slain as he inelegantly wove his way through the melee, desiring to escape fell blades before his body betrayed him. Fifteen slashes with a long white knife, punctuated by multiple stabs if the Orcs did not die. Most of them did; others gave him a harder fight. His blade needed cleaning and sharpening once this battle ended – if they survived as victors – and he needed treatment. His side lanced with fire, soaked through with seeping blood while one of his knees locked, bruised after the Orc cast him to stony ground. They were perilous injuries – such as would cripple even the most experienced of warriors.
Aragorn would scold him for his stubbornness later, he knew.
"If he wins back to the caves, he will pass your count again." His companion chuckled; his worn and weary face alit with rare merriment. "Never did I see an axe so wielded."
"I must go and seek some arrows," he said, laying a hand upon the wooden bar. "Would that this night would end, and I could have better light for shooting." As if firing quarrels into the enemy lessened the anguish in his heart. He supposed that long-range combat gave him excuses, for he did not have to gaze directly into faces twisted by hatred. In close combat, he had no choice but to stare as his knife swept bloodily through another life. The thought of lifting that bar, of entering into captured ground, and of being taken prisoner froze him. Still, he needed whittled Rohirric shafts, and his quiver was empty. His other hand wrapped around the beam, ready to haul it from its iron supports.
Unsurprisingly, Aragorn stopped him. Fingers, longer than his, closed around his slender ones. "Not now, Legolas." Dark hair tumbled over broad shoulders as the man shook his head. "Not in your state."
"I refuse to be left inside with nary a weapon in sight while the rest of you fight and die."
"I am not refusing your valour, or your lot in battle." The words were softly spoken. "I saw you fight, and it worries me. You did not move to slay the Orc at the gates. You are limping, barely able to stand. Should you leave this place, I fear I may never see you again."
"Do not take me for an invalid."
Dark sepia eyes met his, narrowing. "Nay. Rather, I should not want to see you as a corpse, son of Thranduil. Saruman's forces have breached and taken the wall – you know that. You need not go out into death and danger to prove yourself."
"Then what should I do, Aragorn? Stay within while the fort falls around me?"
"No." The word was gently said, like a pebble rippling water. "If the fort should fall, we will defend it. Then, Legolas, within these walls, we will fight until there is no more need for battle."
"Until death overtakes us, by your meaning," Legolas replied, feeling his heart clench. "To go beyond the circles of Arda."
"'Til then."
Reprimanded, overtly overwhelmed by the turn in their dialogue, the Elf let his fingers slacken. From without, there was the faint sound of bestial roars, breaking over silence like the deep grumble of thunder during a storm. Whilst the passing torrent had resolved itself, they were sitting within the thick of another, awaiting their end. 'Tis not the calm that frightens me, Legolas thought, watching as the Dúnadan lightly shook him on the shoulder, then left, heading deeper inside. 'Tis the waiting; this harkening of defeat. This helplessness…. With the Ranger gone, he succumbed to the pain smoldering at his side. He had not given sign of his hurts, concerned about Aragorn's distraction during a time that called for leadership.
Uncertain as to when his knees met hard stone, Legolas groped for the wooden beam. His mouth tasted of salt and iron, blood and tears mingled. He shook his head, tossing grimy locks, unable to rid himself of the tearing and pulling that devastated him so. A trembling hand brought into his blurred sight a hideous crimson imitation of Saruman's distinctive mark, eliciting a shudder that only provoked more pain. Sweat stung his eyes, swelling over his brow, and he flattened his bloody palm down, imprinting the floor with his weakness. The flavor of rust on his tongue sickened him, alarming him more so when a cough flecked red on gray.
It was not possible – it could not be.
Groaning, he turned his face towards the door, welcoming its solidity. There was a steady flow of scarlet staining his mail; each discharge of blood pulsed in time to the beat of his own traitorous heart. He could not be dying, Ai Elbereth! Faint shimmers of smoky torchlight seared his eyes, so he shut them, willing to sleep. There would be nothing but vestiges of nightmares in his dreams – dark paths winding forever into even more darkness, and he alone on them, still lost. He lost his footing, his reasoning as an Elf of the highest Silvan order a long time ago. He had left it behind during a living nightmare, and he was so tired.
Perhaps, this was what it was like to die. To drift endlessly into sleep, unknowingly crossing the bounds that separated this world and the next. He thought of Gimli, of the gruff Dwarf with his renown and valor. He remembered Aragorn; had felt the gentleness of his touch, seen his capabilities as a long-lost king refined, and would forever call him his brother in arms. Gandalf – Mithrandir – gleaming white upon his return from the chasm, brilliant and witty as an Istar like him could be. The hobbits, all of them: Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. A gift of friendship, of trust, of a cloak in the night and lembas beside him when death was the only morsel he would have partaken of. His lordship - his father Thranduil. Soul against soul, holding back the memories, warding off the chill that would have stripped him of his immortality. Nimthôn, cradling him against loss, even as the tears silently fell. Another face, haloed darkly, held only memories of what could have been. His brother, Mornereg, whose strike was the one painting him even now with the impending truth of yet another loss – that of himself.
It was so cold.
"Aragorn," he heard himself say, his voice a mere whisper. Somehow, his other hand had fallen from its support, lying still beside him. He was so afraid to enter into those halls, where Mandos held sovereign over the dead. "Aragorn," he attempted again, barely grasping the desperate inflection shading the name this time.
It was not needed.
A cry, the sound of boots against shale, and strong hands cupped around his cheek, lifting his face upwards. "Legolas!" A curt command, the shuffling sound of footsteps, and something hard pressed against his lips. "Legolas, son of Thranduil! Why did you not speak?"
He collapsed into Aragorn's embrace, hard-pressed to resist. "Aragorn," he managed to gasp out before the metal lip of a flask rattled against his teeth. Legolas had not realized he was shivering. Liquid flowed down his throat, breaking the slow pulsing of his blood and ridding his mouth of the dryness of death. He coughed, bringing up fluid dyed vermillion. "Ai Elbereth," he said, letting the quiet invoking of Varda of the stars bleed into silence. "What…what is it that you gave…" He tried to remove himself from his friend's grasp, and found he could not.
"It is something that I carry during my travels. It stops the blood from within, to cease the pallor that accompanies it. There is much danger of death while out in the open, and a wound such as yours could prove to be fatal. As yours nearly was," Aragorn said, brown eyes torn with love and worry. "Why did you not tell me?"
"A mere –" It was so difficult to speak. "A mere loss such as myself…the battle, Aragorn. You cannot save everyone."
Those eyes hardened for a moment. "I can try, can I not?" A sigh. "Legolas, you cannot think to go into the fray like this. Even for your pride, it would be naught but suicide. I will need to see the wound ere I head out."
"When you do, may I request accompanying you?"
"In your state, it will be perilous. Legolas, you were bleeding to death! Can you not see that –"
"If I should die, give me the grace to do so at your side. It would be a better end, meeting Mandos with your presence there, than seeing my blood run along the floor whilst I lay here like an invalid."
A shaky smile. "Did you not proclaim that you should not be taken as such?"
"Consider it my folly. I must have been around Gimli for too long, or my lord-king's traits befitted me better than any glove or mail." He hissed, arching in agony as Aragorn began to unfasten the section of armor around his torso. His heel dug into the pitted stone, scraping back as the intensity from Mornereg's wound increased to an unbearable point. As the discarded mail hit the floor with a shimmer of sound, Legolas glimpsed the glistening sheen of his blood. Trembling, he immediately felt Aragorn's embrace tighten.
"Calm, Legolas. Calm."
He tried, and did not find it hard, given in whose arms he lay. Closing his eyes, and hearing Aragorn's sharp intake of breath at that, he opened them. Torchlight flickered in his periphery, dancing like wraiths set in golden glass. Fingers shifted the delicate belt he wore around his bloody waist, unclasping the buckle with a practiced motion. Cloth draped heavily to one side, drenched, and cold air bit into his heated side as a blade cutting open a fresh wound. Legolas swallowed a sharp gasp, fighting off a wave of nausea. From where he lay, he could see the damage dealt from the Orc's accurate blow. He should have been grateful that his ribs were spared, but the sight before him was gruesome. His whole side was black, engraved with the impression of rings from where the armor collided through clothing and drove into flesh. The bloodstained wrappings tangled messily in the corner, useless. His insistence on fighting had torn apart stitches, revealing dark blood and softer matter inside. Lord Elrond had only healed part of it, he remembered. A good half of the closed gash gaped open, refusing to be closed.
"I still wonder how you managed to fight your way to higher ground," Aragorn murmured above him. A needle, larger than the ones used by maidens for girlish craft and more suitable for healers, shone in the dim glow, readied with thread. Having undergone this before during the skirmishes in Mirkwood against the forces of Dol Guldur, Legolas grit his teeth and braced himself for what was to come. When the first prick and hot discomfort passed through him, he grimaced. "This was not your first time being sewn closed for an injury, I take it?" Another pass with the needle, and a flap of skin merged shut.
"No."
"When did you take a wound that needed such skill?"
"I fought against one of the creatures that dwelled in the southern passes of our kingdom. It was then, while in charge, that I took a grievous hurt. I had never seen my lordship look so pale before."
"He nearly lost a son." It was a statement, not simply a light remark. "As he almost did not long ago."
Legolas watched as Aragorn's capable hands drew the stitches to a tight end, weaving his side with an enviable row of craftsmanship. Some liquid from the flask cleansed the remaining gore away, permitting Aragorn to wrap his midsection. A deft knot in proper places, where the mail would not dent his fragile skin, and the deed was done. He released a sigh of relief, glancing wearily upward into that open and caring face. "My thanks."
"Only to save you from an untimely death, Legolas. Do you still wish to join me on the walls after that?"
"I wish to be with you, to see the dawn. Aragorn, it is all that I ask before we make our last stand."
"It is granted, then, mellon-nin."
Their last stand, if it was their last – something in Legolas hoped that despite lack of intervention from the Valar that a miracle of sorts would happen. That they would not simply die here, bodies desecrated amidst the flying banners of the White Hand and all who followed Saruman. That, if they could breach this obstacle themselves, live out the storm, that they could push forward for all the Free Peoples. That Frodo would follow his painful duty to the end, so that Sauron could be overthrown once and for all. So that, if he could ever heal and discover the lit path hidden from him that he could return home. To Mirkwood, to family, to his father. To look at this when the age of Man became an undeniable truth, and consider it a lesser hurt than what it felt like now.
But he could not be so sure that they would win.
He was not even sure about himself.
The fighting was still thick, centered upon the walls where Aragorn leapt and bound, sword flashing out to kill and to cast back thrown devices. A man on his right kicked back the rungs of a newly-erected ladder, sending it crashing with a sickening crunch below. Legolas gripped the slippery hilt of his knife; another hand clenched his straining side. The Ranger had not let him join him alone; instead, he was flanked by one of the Men of the Mark, who fought the bloodier skirmishes for him, who warded him with his life. He was in his prime, still young according to the Elvish reckoning, and before, Legolas would have deemed this guarding an insult. However, he was no fool to his condition, and he could not battle as he once did.
Even so, his blade tasted ichor.
His warden chopped down an Orc, spraying black filth on armor and tunic. Legolas turned, slower than he would have liked, and slashed the throat of a stumbling foul creature headed in his direction. For all the strength he once had, most of it was spent while he lay near death behind the safety of the door, and his hand was weak. The edge of his knife caught at the end of the cut, snagging into thick leathery skin and dark ring mail. Eyes widening, he jerked at it sideways, hoping to dislodge it. It resisted for a moment, which was almost a moment too late. Hearing the yell behind him, he dropped his hold on the long white blade, hurling himself alongside the dying Orc and nearly into the back of the wall to avoid a wicked scimitar that nearly cleaved him in half where he stood.
Instead, the Orc, doubly dead, fell to the ground in two pieces while his knife skidded down, shining silver as it spun out of reach. A quick glance at that, and then back in alarm to his assailant, twisted his stomach. He did not have enough time, or the speed to reach that distance without being brutally slaughtered. The other Orc cocked his head, eyes narrowing into ferocious slits, and charged. Legolas felt the tremor from the blasting fire beneath his feet, felt it surge and rock his footing, and threw himself to its mercy.
Fire roared, loud and deafening, shaking the foundations of the wall, simultaneously toppling both ally and enemy. The upsurge of the blast exploded in between the two combatants, showering debris and stone across the battleground. The piece of the wall under Legolas' feet flung skyward, hurtling him towards his knife and straight into another section of the wall. The landing was anything but gentle. He cried out as his shoulder slammed into stone, instantly numb. Staggering, half-blinded by the dust swirling about, only the dull glow of his blade drew his attention, and whereas he once was a moment too late, he was now a moment early.
It was just in time.
The blast had not riven the wall into a huge divide, and had the ill luck of tossing his enemy right upon his trail. Not a moment before he grabbed his knife did he hear the chilling cry echo in front of him. He had no time to think, only to react. Driven by instinct, Legolas ducked and pitched forward, hearing a sinister whine as the curved blade missed him by a hair. Slamming the knife's length ahead with both hands because of his failing strength, the squelch of tissues being torn and the hard grind of gristle and bone as the lethal edge severed spinal matter stopped his breath. It was too close. Had it not been for the fire uprooting him from where he stood minutes ago, he would have died.
He was sure of that.
Ripping his blade from the corpse of the former Avari turned Orc, Legolas hesitated, clapping a hand over his mouth. The taste of thick metal induced his rising gorge, and he spat, seeing red. Fumbling within his tunic, loosening the ties of his mail, he dug out the flask Aragorn had pressed into his hand prior to their exit. He drank deeply, calming his shaken nerves. Iron lingered in the back of his throat, vile and unwanted. He took another mouthful, then plugged the flask, slipping it carefully back in place. His hands trembled, clattering the silver knife against the bloodied mail by his thigh. Resolutely, he sheathed it, finding the urge to sleep sweeping over him like warm wind.
"Legolas!"
"Aragorn," he said, following the man's movements with a weary glance. "How goes the defense of the walls?"
"We will last until the gates fall, Legolas. How fare you?"
"Ill enough. The blast was what saved me, but the wound troubles me. My dependence upon your draught for survival does not bode well. I will follow you, shielded by your man but I cannot fight. My strength," he held out his hands, dirtied and torn, and saw understanding flicker in the other man's eyes, "is gone. I can no more fight than wish that Gimli is safe."
"Then we will guard you, Legolas."
A sudden dip of the head, his gaze lowered. "You honor me with such sentiments. It is beyond what I ask."
"You are my brother in or off the field, Legolas. As much as you fight to defend my life, so I will yours. Come, let us cease this prattle, and join the others near the gates. There is something that I wish for the enemy to hear, and if you can stand…" An arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him close. "Where is your man?"
"I thought he escaped unscathed."
"Was he in the middle of the wall when the fire hit?"
Legolas closed his eyes, trying to map out the positions they were in ere the blaze split them. "We were hampered. It is difficult to tell."
"We must hope that he survived. Come, Legolas – it is nearly dawn."
It was nearly dawn, with the eastern sky a wash of dwindling star-speckled light, and Aragorn was speaking. Tucked against the wall, nestled among the Rohirrim, Legolas forced himself to listen. He had unwittingly resumed the position he had taken within the shelter of the Hornburg, face to the wall, while his body surrendered to exhaustion. The silver-hafted knife lay at an angle from his hip, trustworthy during battle. His bow, its string still pliable after such strenuous use, rested against the plane of his back. It was a gift. Both assisted him in the taking of lives, of lives that were never his to take in the first place. Sweat cooled on his brow, dripping silently to the ground. Aragorn's flask, cold against his breast, held the drops that stifled the bleeding that would have killed him. He watched, as if through a dream, at Aragorn's towering figure.
"No enemy has yet taken the Hornburg. Depart, or not one of you will be spared. Not one will be left alive to take tidings to the North. You do not know your peril." An ultimatum stated, and one ultimately, to be ignored. He saw the dark form of the Ranger jump, followed by derogatory laughter and the keening knell of arrows.
Legolas stiffened. He would have been on his feet, if not for the severe toll he had put himself through. "Aragorn!"
The shock of the blasting fire trembled through the wall, shaking the length of it. Placing his hand upon granite, the Elvish prince stared as the gate fell to pieces, shredded beyond immediate repair. This was their last stand. This was to be their final hour, and he could not move. His legs were as water beneath him, trapping him as surely as being transfixed by a spear would do. If the enemy were to sweep through, killing all in their path, he willed to die at the point of a sword or javelin. By the hand of a wild man, and not a band of Orcs. They would see him for what he was, and they would take him and torture him. He would die, screaming as his life faded from his body, evicted from Arda.
He shuddered. Not again. Never again.
Then, everything changed. A great call, a deep rumble from above that covered the whole fortress in its bellowing wake, and Legolas shook, moved. The sound fanned out, answering to others from afar, covering the land with a valley of tones and music. Desperate cries – Legolas grasped at the faint shouts of "Helm! Helm! Helm is arisen and comes back to war. Helm for Théoden King!" – rang out from below, and he cursed the fact that he could not see it. Slowly, his awareness of the excited Men of the Mark, the clatter of weapons, the rustle and clink of mail, the triumphant horns blazing their existence, the weight of his limbs, the heaviness of his weapons, and the wretched fatigue melted away into anything, everything, and nothing.
Legolas fell; eyes open to see light transfiguring darkness into day.
To see the dawn would be reward enough. Le hannon, mellon-nin.
Sindarin: mellon-nin (friend), le hannon (thank you)