Author's Note - I felt in my heart that something was missing from this story, and now it is complete. Finally. This is the scene of the death of Legolas, told from the point of view of the Elf himself. Sorry if it is depressing. I had to do it before the plot bunny gnawed my foot clear off.
Hours dragged by, and still the Battle of the Pelennor Fields raged on.
Legolas fought with every ounce of valor he possessed. It seemed that for every enemy he slaughtered, five more took his place. It was exhausting, but the Elf refused to let himself be slowed by his weariness. His very life depended on the accuracy of his aim, the agility of his fighting stances, the sharpness of his concentration, and the rapidity of his reflexes. He employed everything he had learned over millennia of warrior-training and battle experience, and he kept count in his head as each enemy fell to the precision of his arrows. Eventually, he planned to rub his impressive total in the Dwarf's face. He knew without a doubt that Gimli was hoping to do the very same thing.
Speaking of the Dwarf, he seemed to be doing just fine himself. For some time, Gimli had been fighting bravely near him, but as the battle intensified, they had become separated. Legolas tried as much as possible to keep one eye on the Dwarf, to be sure that he was safe, but it was difficult, as the enemy was everywhere and it took almost all his concentration to kill before being killed.
Suddenly, something forced him to look up and seek the location of his Dwarven friend. The sense of foreboding that surrounded his soul was very quickly deemed appropriate as Legolas took in the horror about to take place. Fear gripped his heart, constricting like a closed fist, as he watched a Haradrim soldier atop a mûmak lift a hand wielding a spear and take aim at Gimli. The stout warrior was far too busy dispatching the dozen or so Orcs who had encircled him to realize what was happening.
His blue eyes were huge as he cried out the Dwarf's name, but it was lost to the chaos of battle, and when Gimli did not move or even turn around, Legolas knew what he had to do. Without thinking, he leapt right into the path of the Haradrim's spear, howling in misery as the deadly barb met an unintended mark, piercing into vulnerable flesh near the Elf's heart and sending agony coursing through the lithe body.
He swayed on his feet, his eyes slipping shut for the briefest of moments as his mind wrapped around the reality of the situation. He had been hit. He had allowed himself to be hit. He swallowed, tasting blood, and watched in mounting horror as the warrior from Harad let down a rope and began to descend from his enormous mount. It was obvious he was no longer interested in slaying the Dwarf. He was coming after Legolas now!
The Elf reached up, and with an agonized cry wrenched free the spear that was embedded in his chest. The pain nearly brought him to his knees. Dizzily, he stumbled backward, but managed to remain standing somehow even as the world spun sickeningly around him. He closed his eyes with a groan, willing the earth to stop moving long enough to regain his sense of balance. He needed to fight back! He couldn't be so preoccupied with his equilibrium when his life was in jeopardy!
When everything stopped spinning, he gritted his teeth and faced the man from the South who had tried to kill his dearest friend and in the process had instead wounded him, and sent the foul weapon sailing right back at him. It rammed into the Haradrim's chest with enough force to knock him over. He reached back into his depleting supply of arrows, and one by one fired them into the bodies of the men remaining in the howdah that had carried the one who had first impaled him.
Satisfied that he had exacted his revenge, Legolas took in a shaky breath. He made a slow circle, taking in the carnage around him, searching for his friends. To his dismay, none were to be seen. Even Gimli had been swept off elsewhere in the skirmish, lost to the crowds of enemies and comrades alike who battled viciously for their lives. He was all alone.
For the moment, he was too exhausted to try to find them. Taking refuge behind the enormous corpse of a fallen Warg, he sank to his knees, trying to take a moment to gather his wits about him before attempting to plunge back into the fray. All around him, he heard the clanking of blades against protective armor, the battle cries of various cultures, the squeals and screams of injured and dying Orcs, the stomp of the feet and the trumpeting of the mûmakil, the blare of rallying horns, and the whinnying of frightened horses. But here, for the moment at least, he felt safe. His chin dropped to his chest, his breathing fast and shallow as tears leaked from his eyes. The hurt he was forced to endure was immeasurable. His hair slipped over his shoulders, swinging to curtain his face as it crumpled in misery.
His moment of respite was cut short, however, when his thoughts were interrupted by a sickening sound of splintering and cracking. Legolas felt his heart stop when he looked up just in time to see the howdah which had been carrying his dispatched foes crashing down toward him.
The entire tower-like wooden structure plummeted down onto him, throwing him hard to the ground and burying him in debris as it shattered on impact. The dust that the explosion churned up threatened to choke him, and he gasped for breath, his lungs burning.
Suddenly, everything was so dark. He couldn't believe that the splintered wood had completely buried him, yet it must have, Legolas realized with growing dread. He could see nothing. No sunlight was visible whatsoever.
And oh, how he hurt. His entire body was tender to the touch. It became evident to Legolas that his ribs were broken, as was his bow-arm. He felt rather than saw the dark bruises that covered his pale skin. The stab-wound on his chest was gushing blood in a steady, rhythmic pulse. The circle of crimson was spreading rapidly, staining the left half of his green tunic. He could not move enough to remove his garments to see the wound in all its ugliness, so gingerly he lifted shaking fingers to prod at it gently, trying to feel the extent of the damage, and was rewarded by a jarring wave of agony so strong it made him scream.
Ai, my wound is mortal. The horrible thought came unbidden to his reeling mind. He tried in vain to deny it, wanting more than anything to believe he was wrong, but he knew better. His heart knew better. It was over. All the millennia of his past and those that were meant to belong to him in the future; ripped away from him in a single instant. The irony was almost too much to bear.
He had spent almost all of his life thriving somehow under the shadows that veiled the forest he called home. He had battled enormous, venomous spiders while patrolling the border for his father the king, the Watcher at the entrance to the Mines of Moria, goblins and cave trolls in the tomb of Balin the Dwarf, Orcs at Amon Hen and then at Helm's Deep, ghosts in the Paths of the Dead, and now countless others here at the Pelennor Fields.
And yet, after surviving all the trials and tribulations life had already thrown into his path, Legolas was fated to die at the tip of a spear not even meant for him.
He would die here, on a reeking, blood-covered battlefield outside a stone city that was rapidly falling to evil. He would never know the outcome of this fray; he would never know if the Ringbearer accomplished his mission. He would never know if good prevailed over evil. He would never know if the Dark Lord would be destroyed, if Middle Earth was once again be restored to peace and prosperity.
Tears slipped from his tortured eyes. He would perish here, buried alive under the shattered war-carriage of his enemies and pinned down by the weight of his misery and the uncooperativeness of his broken body. His friends would not find him in time, if they found him at all. He would face his death alone.
He would never see his father again. The thought caused a huge lump to rise in his throat. Ai, how he had let his king down! How he had let his kingdom down!
In the darkness of his prison under the enemy's planks, he wept bitterly for the loss of his immortality.
After his sobs had subsided to small whimpers, a strange question entered his bleary thoughts and confused him enough to send him into silent reflection. Would he do it all over again, if time reversed and he was again given the choice to step forth and accept the task of aiding Frodo? Yes, his heart cried. A thousand times, yes!
He had made the most incredible friends on this journey. He had felt a real sense of purpose for the first time in his long life. He had joined the Fellowship for many reasons: his respect for Lord Elrond, his love for Aragorn, his desire to protect the Ringbearer…but most of all, to rise against the evil that threatened the prosperity of Middle Earth. He didn't want to be a hero; he wanted to be a guardian. And now he would be just another fallen warrior. Ai, how he had failed!
Most of all, he failed the one he had promised to shield from harm. He had failed Frodo. His heart ached for the young Hobbit, who had seen far too much for a creature who had barely had a chance to live yet.
His was a burden far heavier than any should be forced to bear. He carried the fate of Middle Earth on a simple chain around his neck, and Legolas did not envy him the momentous task, although he would gladly have taken on the burden of the Ring himself if only to no longer be forced to helplessly watch the young Halfling stumble under its weight.
Yet he knew Frodo would succeed. There was great strength in the small creature, and Legolas had known immediately and never doubted his capacity for greatness. In that respect, to the Elf's mind at least, the Hobbit was so much like Aragorn.
Aragorn. He choked on a sob as he thought of the Ranger. He loved the man as a brother; had in fact watched him come of age under the careful guidance of Lord Elrond in Rivendell. Aragorn was the only one he felt secure enough with to share his deepest secret, and he had never regretted his decision, for Aragorn had never breathed a word of it to another soul inhabiting this world. He knew that without having ever questioned the man.
It seemed like eternity tiptoed by, and the heavy silence that eventually fell over the battlefield puzzled Legolas. Was it over? He had no way of knowing. Perhaps the screeching he had heard earlier had been that of the Nazgûl, claiming the lives of each and every one of his friends and dooming the fate of Middle Earth to the corruption of Sauron.
Perhaps he was the last vestige of virtue. How ironic, he thought bitterly, if my death which has been inevitably creeping closer takes longer to come upon me than that of my comrades.
Legolas was so very tired. His eyelids felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds, and forces unseen were trying to drag him into blackness.
So this is what it feels like to die.
Before he could contemplate the alien feelings further –or worse yet, give into them– a familiar sound startled him out of his reverie. He heard the heavy footfalls and his heart lurched. Only one could walk so heavily. Only one had mail that rattled so unmistakably and armor that clanked so distinctly.
Gimli.
Licking his dry lips and swallowing hard, he tried to call out the name of his friend, to no avail at first. Frustrated tears sprang to his eyes, and he coughed, trying to regain his voice before it was too late and the Dwarf advanced too far beyond his place of burial to hear him.
Finally, his strained efforts met with success, but the voice that tore from his parched throat was hardly his own as he cried out weakly, "Gimli…" There was no response, so he tried again, over and over, until his sharp hearing detected that the hurried footsteps were approaching rather than departing from him.
"Legolas!" His name ringing in his own ears had never sounded so beautiful. "Legolas! Legolas, speak to me!"
He rasped out the Dwarf's name one last time before his voice failed him, but it proved enough, for the short creature was upon him and frantically digging to unearth his fallen body.
Sunlight suddenly broke through, blinding Legolas and making him moan in pain, but it was welcome all the same. When his blurred vision cleared, he blinked away the tears and saw the most wonderful sight.
Legolas stared up into the familiar, beloved face of his friend, as if he was committing every detail to memory…but it was not so, for he already knew the Dwarf by heart.
Gimli was not the most perceptive creature Legolas had ever encountered. He certainly did not display a talent for meticulous observation, and relied more on his instincts than his intuition.
Yet he always knew what Legolas was thinking, feeling, worrying about, analyzing…often before even the Elf himself could figure it out. He knew Legolas by heart.
From the moment Gimli discovered him, it seemed like everything happened in slow motion. Through the haze that lingered at the edges of the unconsciousness that threatened to claim him at any moment, he carried on a sorrowful dialogue with his best friend.
As time wore on, Legolas could barely grasp what was happening, but he knew somehow that he was trying simultaneously to comfort his worry-stricken friend and say goodbye to him. He knew Gimli would argue, and he had never wanted to bicker with the Dwarf more, but he lacked the strength. He heard himself telling his friend to take care of Aragorn, and bidding Gimli to promise that he would visit the realm of his father and reconcile with Thranduil. But it seemed as if he was not controlling his actions. It all felt so unreal to him.
A new question filled his wearied mind. Would I have looked for Gimli again, and put myself in the path of that spear aimed for him, knowing now that it has come at such a price? His tears ran freely down his face as he nodded fervently to himself. Yes. I would sacrifice it all again for the sake of one. For the sake of my friend. It is worth the price of everything to know that he is safe…that I kept him safe when he needed me most.
Now, in the comfort of his dear friend's embrace, he whispered a loving farewell and allowed himself to give in to the blessed blackness. His last thought echoed into the silence as his sad fate claimed him. Malenfín…