The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

Chapter 2

Snap Decisions

It was hard going walking through the thick, ashy sludge that made up the majority of the surface of the Old Forest that wound from the fallen Woodland Realm of Mirkwood all the way across the snow-capped Misty Mountains. His long memory could easily recall when the much-used road was clear, well-guarded by the Elves and easy to navigate due to the frequency of use; but nothing in these dark days was ever easy. Even the Elf's inherent light-footedness did little to ease the way and he struggled with every step. Not that it mattered because he was in no hurry and travelled with no other to see his battle for balance and he had no need for clear directions – a good job seeing as any signposts along the way had long since rotted out of existence - because Legolas knew every square inch of this particular road like the back of his hand.

He had walked this road hundreds of times, both before the victory of Mordor when he had walked from the splendour of his home to the other side of the impressive mountains and long after it became dangerous and difficult.

In fact, in the wake of the fall of the once strong and mighty kingdom of Mirkwood, of which he had once been crown prince sole heir to the throne, Legolas had done very little but wander up and down the stretch of road from the ravaged forest to the very base of the mountains, never crossing over the peaks into the lands beyond, never straying too far.

Truthfully, after the fall of the Woodland Realm, her broken-hearted, exiled prince had had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. He had no chance of ever taking back his infested lands, not by himself anyway and not without any weapons of note, so he simply walked the road he knew so well, never venturing too far in either direction, neither towards his beloved but now wretched forest nor to possible redemption across the mountains. He had no aim, nothing to walk towards, and yet he could not - would not - stop.

Compelled to ever continue onwards despite the challenges presented to him along the way – lack of food and water; the danger of roaming orcs, Spiders and Men; to name but a few – he just had nothing else to do with himself, nowhere else to go. To stop was to die; he honestly believed that. And although he had nothing to live for anymore, no friends or family left alive to share what remained of his own life, he forced himself to endure.

Today, the blistering heat that the thick, unnatural clouds of Mordor usually trapped in the air was sufficiently dampened by the coming of the first real winter in years and now, for the first time in the twenty years that Legolas had been tracing the same sludgy pathway, the ground beneath his thin-booted feet was partially frozen. Usually the cold only came as darkness descended whilst the days remained unbearably hot. Neither was particularly comfortable though and Legolas found that he really didn't care either way, despite the fact that for some reason he felt the heat and cold more these days.

He walked alone. The mere thought of travelling with another filled his heart with dread. The only time he ever came into contact with anyone at all, they were allied to the Enemy and he was able to do that which he took a little pleasure – if he was able to feel pleasure at all anymore - in doing: killing the foul creatures of Sauron who'd brought misery to the lands.

The road under his feet now was an odd, unpleasant mixture of ice and mud. His toes, covered by thin boots stolen from the pitiful corpse of some poor soul who had perished on the side of the road – one of the many the Elf had come across over the years – were frozen stiff, aching as he expertly stepped around the perilous potholes and sheets of ice forming on the road.

It was growing dark and he knew that soon he would have to stop, not because of the fall of night but because, after three days of non-stop walking, he was growing exhausted and although he actually quite liked the almost numb feeling his fatigue brought, he knew it was dangerous to indulge in. With so many orcs and bandits also on the road, it was not sensible to become exhausted to the point where he could no longer defend himself.

By now he knew all the safe places to rest along the road so, leaving the frozen pathway, he ducked through a well-known cave entrance and slipped inside. It was small, but small was best for there were fewer places for evil forces to hide; it was comforting to be so enclosed. Of course, it didn't stop the cold penetrating but at least when the rains fell from the threateningly heavy dark clouds, which now constantly obscured the sun and stars, he would be sheltered.

The prince shuffled right to the very back of the small cave, confident already that he wouldn't be sharing it with anyone or anything else that night. He replaced some of the overgrown vines over the entrance to disguise its existence just in case someone should pass by. That it was occupied should now have been indeterminate. Shrugging off the leather satchel filled with the few essentials that he carried with him always, Legolas sat down on the hard but dry ground. It wasn't comfortable but at least he was off his throbbing feet.

Knowing that it was too dangerous to start a fire to warm up his chilled body, he didn't bother removing his filthy clothing. Rarely anymore did he peel the tattered thick layers of clothing from his body, which was actually a relief to him as, trapped on the same stretch of road with no amenities, he had very few opportunities to wash himself and anyway he despised having to look at his thin, emaciated form anyway; it only reminded him – if a reminder was ever needed – that the world had become a desolate and grim place, and the mere sight of his skeletal body with its pale almost translucent skin sickened him to the core and at just the thought he shuddered in the darkness of the cave.

He pulled, with gloved, shaking hands, a thread-bare blanket from his satchel and carefully swung it around his thin shoulders, pulling it up over his head as well like a hood. Then he retrieved his canteen from his bag and took a measured sip from the nearly empty flask. Water was a valuable substance, more precious to him now than all the jewels beneath Arda and he knew to survive he must ration it, no matter how thirsty he got.

With the blanket wrapped tightly around himself and his backpack held close in case some stray bandit decided he wanted the prince's belongings enough to attack, Legolas finally allowed his shattered body to rest.

It wasn't long before the rains fell from the sky, accompanied by earth-rumbling thunder and flashes of odd-coloured lightening which reflected off the dark clouds and lit up the desolate world beneath in a way that perhaps might once have been described as beautiful. Legolas, however, had no time for beauty anymore, nothing in this new world was beautiful Sauron had made certain of that when he ravaged the lands and he was immensely glad he was inside away from the toxic downpour.

This far away from Dol Guldur, the third biggest base of Mordor's allies and the tower from which had poured the enemies of Mirkwood during the war to end all wars, the rain would have done little but mildly burned his skin, a discomfort rather than a terrible threat. In Mirkwood, however, this rain would be a burning, stinging acid deluge that on a regular basis battered the already bare ground and he wouldn't want to get caught out in that again. He already carried a couple of scars from last time the acidic rain had hit his bare skin when he'd been caught unawares in the past.

For a while, Legolas watched as the bright lightning intermittently lit up the sheet rain pouring from the thunderously black sky, which showed through the small gaps in the drenched foliage he'd used for concealment. The Elf was exhausted from his latest stint on the road but even in the cover of the cave he feared going to sleep; it was then that he was at his most vulnerable – to both outside threats and the ones that invaded his mind when he allowed it to drift from reality. He feared so many things in this world changed but he knew this was probably the safest he was going to be for a good long while, so he let his eyes fall partially closed and glazed over and allowed himself to drift off into the light reverie that generally substituted for sleep.

OIOI

Legolas awoke with a start from his unsettled reverie. He gauged that the rain had stopped as he could no longer hear the pounding of water outside the cave entrance. And, apart from the ever-present, far-distant rumbling from the direction of Mordor that whispered through the air, the surrounding area appeared quiet once more. His tiny cave had remained undisturbed during his repose and his bag was still tightly clutched in his cold hands, safe from bandits and thieves for another night.

And yet something still felt different with the world.

It was difficult to be completely certain because since the devastation wreaked by the war, the world had become so horribly confusing that it was all but impossible to tell the difference between what had become normal and abnormal. And yet, that odd nagging sensation at the back of his mind that let him know when something was wrong just would not go away.

He strained his hearing hoping it might provide some clue as to what was out of place but there was no anomalous sound but the odd falling raindrop hitting the mud outside his cave; no distant voices or calls of Orcs – or worse. And yet neither was it entirely silent. The sound of distant evil hung in the air, unsettling Legolas even though after so many years of bearing it it should have had no further effect on him.

Usually when he got this peculiar feeling that something was amiss, he simply ignored it, not wanting to get involved in anything that could turn out to be perilous for him. There was too much danger around fully prepared to hunt him down and take his fragile life as it was without him actively going out of his way to look for it. He just liked to walk. Walking was so blissfully simple and he always knew where he was on the Old Forest Road.

This time though, he found it difficult to ignore. Carefully, he removed his blanket and folded it up as small as possible before replacing it in his pack, from which he also pulled one of the long, white-handled knives contained within an ancient tattered leather sheath. Despite his reluctance to venture from the relative safety of his dry cave, Legolas felt oddly compelled to move, to search out the cause of the weird tingling sensation that had invaded his mind. He had to know.

Standing and ducking low so as not to bang his head on the low roof of the cave, Legolas crept forwards, knife in hand. After clearing some of the protective foliage away, Legolas peered out of the mouth of the cave to check that nothing was lurking right outside, ready to strike. Ascertaining that the coast was clear, he crept out into the darkness, silent but for the slight rustle of the bushes as he replaced them to cover up the entrance to the cave so it remained concealed should he ever have need to use it again.

The previously frozen path was now soaked with the acrid water that had poured from the sky filling in the potholes that pitted the road. Nothing else appeared, at first glance, to be different, although all along the road a thick mist had descended, shrouding his view beyond more than a few feet in any direction. He looked left and right, searching for some reason behind the tingling of dread in his mind.

With a small sigh of defeat crossed with relief that he'd found nothing out of the ordinary, he turned his mind to considering whether he could really justify going back to his dry cave for another couple of hours' sleep. Now that he was back on the well-known stretch of mud though, he felt the itching need to be walking again. Although he had just come from that very direction a few hours ago and would thus be retracing his steps, he turned left and, readjusting his backpack strap on his shoulder, he settled into walking once more.

Ironically, it didn't take him long to completely by coincidence come upon the thing that had pricked his senses alert earlier. The Orcs, vile abominations created by Sauron, were hardly subtle or quiet when they travelled. Legolas was instantly on alert when he heard them from afar through the fog. He hastily left the road and retrieved his second knife, the first's twin, from the sheath in his backpack.

Under normal circumstances, he would have left the area with all possible haste, letting the blood-thirsty Orcs retain control of the road rather than challenging them and engaging them in battle. But tonight he felt the old heat of anger burning in the pit of his stomach, the feeling surprising him as he hadn't felt it in decades. A long time ago, he had given up on all thoughts of revenge for the sacking of his beloved homeland and now he only fought out of absolute necessity rather than for pleasure. The unexpected heat urged him onwards despite the voice of common sense in his head and he returned to the road with determination, weapons at the ready, fully prepared and longing for a fight.

Confidently striding through the thick mist, Legolas ran towards the sounds of heavy footsteps and clanking armour.

His guess at Orcs proved correct. They marched in an erratic manner, in typically disordered ranks, stomping and sliding carelessly on the wet, slippery ground, growling and snarling in annoyance and abject misery as they went; heedless it seemed of the Elf making his approach on conversely light and steady feet.

As he neared their position, Legolas left the road once more, wanting some small element of surprise to his eventual attack. He crouched at the side of the path, cold, gloved hands clasping onto the white handles of his most treasured weapons. The Orcs, not anticipating any kind of opposition on the Mordor-controlled path, were clearly not looking out for any potential danger; after all, in this part of the world no one dared to stand up to the might of Mordor any longer. They hadn't even sent a scout ahead to check for danger.

It proved perfect for Legolas. Despite their numbers, they remained a woefully stupid race.

Well-trained in battle, having had plenty of practice over his eternal lifetime in the ever-beleaguered kingdom of Mirkwood, Legolas did not fear plunging into battle with his foe, even in his state weakened by hunger and neglect. He knew how to kill the creatures and now that the opportunity to engage in battle with that most hated race had presented itself, he found that the prospect of shedding the black, toxic blood of the wretched ones from Mordor excited him.

Adjusting his tight grip on his twin Elvish blades, Legolas readied himself to act. He let the first few ranks of Orcs pass him by, knowing the weaker, less well-armed ones tended to take up the rear and they would make for good sport and balance out the odds somewhat with their easy demise – it was always handy to ease into a fight and they would prove the perfect warm-up before the main event. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Legolas prepared to leap forwards, blood pounding through his veins with strength he had not felt for many years.

Just as he was about to make his move though, he squinted through the fog at the rows of creatures to find that the Orcs towards the front of the ranks had halted and turned back to face the slower amongst them.

"Get 'em up," one of the foul beings commanded in a loud harsh voice.

There was a small scuffle arising in the midst of the Orkish patrol but Legolas couldn't see with whom they were fighting – 'probably fighting amongst themselves,' he thought to himself in disgust. Maybe if he waited long enough they would all get involved in the fight and even the odds out even more for him.

"I said, get 'em up. We ain't carryin' them the whole way," the same Orc complained, shoving its way through its companions. The Orc kicked at something on the ground and Legolas heard an exclamation of pain, followed by a sharp cry of, "No!"

The prince's ears pricked up at this for that was a voice of innocence, not corruption; the voice of a child. Before he even realised it, the pleading voice had penetrated the hardened shell around his heart and he felt it constrict painfully with sympathy for the innocent. This was neither the time or the place for sympathy though and he resolved to remain distanced from this. The child was not his concern.

"Shut it!" the Orc growled in wake of the child's cry.

A tight voice sounded amidst the chaos, calling out desperately, "Leave him alone, I beg you." A human man, Legolas determined. Not his concern either. The Orcs were his only concern.

"You be quiet!" the Orc ground out, drawing a rusty sword in threat.

"He's just a boy. Please let him go," the human voice cried out in spite of the threat.

Laughter rippled cruelly through the Orkish ranks and Legolas felt his blood run cold with dread at the sound; it was one he was horribly familiar with as he had heard it echoing across his vast forest home as Mirkwood had been razed to the ground by the foul creatures. Hatred, pure and unadulterated, replaced sympathy in his heart and his cold fingers tightened around pearl-white handles in determination to shed black blood this night.

"Keep your mouth shut, scum," the lead Orc yelled, kicking at what to Legolas looked like a lump of immobile rags.

There was no further sound from the wretched human and Legolas watched in equal silence through the thick mist as a pair of harassed looking Orcs dragged the hunched-over figure to his feet and shoved him forward with no care for his balance. Fortunately the man caught himself before he could slip in the mud and, as he forced himself to take limping steps forwards, Legolas noticed the man reach out a pale hand and take the young boy's much smaller hand, urging him forward to escape the notice of the Orcs.

It was a sad sight, man and child, no doubt guiltless other than being of a kind hated by the forces of evil, surrounded by monsters, no doubt being led to their deaths, but it was one Legolas had witnessed all too many times over the last fifty years. He had come to learn that in such matters there was no escape and most anyone could hope for was that their deaths would be swift. Perhaps if he timed his ambush to perfection he could put the poor people out of their misery himself, for surely any ending was better than the one the Orcs no doubt had planned.

As the end ranks of Orcs started their disorganised, stomping marching again, faster now to catch up with their unburdened companions, Legolas at last took his opportunity. With so many different conflicting emotions running through his aching heart, he focused on just one, the most potent and easiest to give into: rage. He allowed it to flood his mind as, stealthily, even though stealth was not required anymore, he rushed onto the road behind the Orcs and without hesitation slashed at the backs of the closest two, killing them instantly.

He managed to take down another couple of the intensely stupid creatures before they could think to defend themselves or the others caught on and turned to face their surprise attacker. With loud howls of anger, the Orcs surged towards him with their rusted weapons, but strangely Legolas wasn't in the least bit intimidated by them or even remotely tired from his trials any longer. He simply gave himself over to this most primal anger. The adrenaline surged and the fallen prince engaged.

Man and child, caught in the midst of this fight between their evil captors and this mystery fool who dared challenge the creatures of Shadow, crouched low, hoping to be ignored by both sides of the fight. They wanted no part of this, whatever it was. Nevertheless, the Man knew an opportunity when he saw one and as the Orcs were distracted by the tall creature of wrath who assaulted them without fear or mercy, he snatched the child's hand and dragged the frozen boy away from the brawl.

"Dad?" the child cried out, tugging on his father's hand in terror.

"We have to go," the man encouraged frantically.

"But…"

"Now," he urged as an Orc fell dead near to them. The young boy screamed in horror and made no further protest as he was dragged from the site of the battle. He struggled to his feet again even as his father stumbled in his haste to escape. The child, hearing the shouts of the angry Orcs behind him, forced himself to his short, weak legs to run but as they cleared the scene of the scuffle, something dragged him back to the muddy ground.

At first, the child, terrified out of his wits, panicked, crying out for fear that he had been snagged by one of the set-upon black-blooded monsters who had been marching them relentlessly across the lands for the past week. Sense returned quickly though and he realised that the hold-up with their escape was in fact his own father, who had slipped in the mud and was now kneeling on the ground, coughing that awful, hacking cough that had been assailing him for many weeks now. His once strong father had suffered this kind of attack of illness before but now was not the time to fall.

"Go," the man desperately rasped to his son, roughly shoving the small body away from him. When the light grey eyes of the boy flicked from the misty road to his father, then to the still on-going battle and finally back again, showing his indecision, the man cried as loud as he dared, "I told you to leave. Now go!"

Shaking his head so that the thin fabric of his hood slid back to reveal dark, lank curls on a pale forehead, the boy insisted, "No," and went to grab his father's arm to help him up.

"Don't," the man demanded even as he grasped his tight chest. "Just go. Run."

"I'm not leaving." An Orc crashed to the ground close by, making the boy scream in fright but the monster was already dead and the human child looked towards the battle only long enough to ensure that the Orcs were not liable to abandon their fight with the strange, blonde-haired man who sought a fight with them.

Averting his eyes – the sounds of death echoing along the creepy road were bad enough, he didn't want to watch the demise of the creatures or the man attacking them – the boy once again tugged on his downed father's arm. He wanted to get away from all this horror but he knew he couldn't leave his father – he wouldn't leave him, not after everything they had been through in the past weeks.

"Daddy, get up," the young boy cried, pulling his father's arm.

Upon the urging, this time the weakened man scrambled to his feet. If his son would not leave him and save himself he still had a responsibility to get him to safety.

"Come on," he gasped, half-crawling away from the struggle. He hoped to get far enough away so that they would be concealed by the still-present mist. If they hid on the side of the road then perhaps they could remain undetected whilst the danger passed. This plan, however, was dependant on the crazy man who had started a fight with the Orcs actually winning and they couldn't be certain that would happen. So they struggled to gain some distance.

Legolas knew nothing but blind rage as he flung himself whole-heartedly into this self-inflicted battle. The moves he had practiced every day of his life for almost two thousand years came surprisingly easily despite them no longer having quite the same force behind them due to his lack of strength. The most he had fought prior to this was out of necessity when attacked; he had not been on the offensive for a long time. And it felt good.

As black blood spurted and flowed copiously from the hideous creatures of Mordor, Legolas felt his own, untainted blood pounding with energy. He continued to attack without mercy, whirling and slashing at the Enemy with glinting silver blades, all rage and hatred. The stunned Orcs barely had time to rally before they were killed where they stood. They fought, of course, but they had not had to fight one of the Elven-kind for many decades and they were ill-prepared for such a well thought out battle. Seldom in this part of the world, now almost completely devoid of anything other than evil, were the Orcs attacked and never by the nearly extinct race of Elves.

The Orcs, despite Legolas' initial uncertainty about taking them on, never really stood a chance. Caution was thrown to the wind by both sides. After all, Legolas no longer cared whether he lived or died. It wasn't as if there was anything to live for anymore. Death would be a blessed relief.

Thick black Orc blood coated Legolas' hands as it dripped and slid down the handles of the twin Elven blades he wielded and sprayed in his face but he didn't care at all about the gore. He attacked with venom and efficiency. 'Attacking out of anger,' he could still hear his old weapons' instructor telling him on Mirkwood's sunlit training fields, 'can only lead to failure. Attack with your mind, not your heart.' Sound advice to be sure but impossible to heed as sheer fury pulsed through his mind and heart equally.

The last Orc fell as easily as the others but Legolas did not immediately stop in his assault. Yelling in rage unchecked, he stabbed and slashed at the corpses, wanting to defile them in the same way they had defiled his kin. Never would he fully descend to their level of depravity but he needed to vent this wrath lest it consume him in its potency.

Slamming his knife into the black heart of one of the disgusting servants of the Dark Lord Sauron, Legolas finally gave in to the exhaustion that had been his constant companion for the past five decades and pulled the blade free with some effort before letting it rest against the ground whilst he caught his breath.

His heart remained racing, blood pounding loudly in his ears, for a long time and it felt good to hear something other than the ominous rolling thunder from Mordor. Looking down in disgust at the revolting mass of corpses, Legolas wiped his knives clean on a rag snagged from one unlucky creature who had lost his head.

As the adrenaline wore off, the pounding that had filled his mind started to also ease off and his breathing evened out, Legolas heard a sound, one he was even less familiar with than the noise of battle. Frowning, he tried to place the sound. It sounded like…crying, he realised.

Exhausted from the fight, Legolas felt that he should retreat away from any new situation that would further delay him on his walk. And yet, for reasons beyond his understanding, he felt compelled to find out what was happening to make this night so terribly different from all the other nights he had endured for the past twenty years.

Slowly, he turned towards the noise, raising one of the knives he still held in his right hand just as a precaution. There were very few things in this changed world that he trusted anymore.

Sat only ten feet or so down the muddy road, was a small boy, hunched over the large lump that Legolas had seen the Orcs tormenting before he launched his surprise assault. The wretched crying, it seemed, was coming from the obviously distressed child and he seemed to be desperately trying to shake the wheezing, coughing lump into action, with very little success.

"Dad, get up," the boy cried out in distress, shaking the man's arm again. "Daddy, please. We have to go."

The man, the boy's father, Legolas realised, made no other response but to cough weakly again. Despite his uncertainty, Legolas took a step forward, being careful to avoid treading on the fallen Orcs or slipping on slick blood. He found that his curiosity was piqued by father and son – Orcs holding humans captive was no great shock for they had enslaved many since the end of the reign of the Free Peoples but this was the first time Legolas had actually encountered the enslaved personally. He had seen the Elves, people, friends, from his own kingdom, abused and murdered by the Orcs but this child, pleading and begging with his fallen father, tugged on his heartstrings in a way nothing had since he had fled his home. Sympathy – it was an emotion he had not experienced in so long that it no longer seemed as familiar nor came as easily as it once had.

For a moment, Legolas watched the child and tried to figure out what he should do next. Everything he had learned during his long exile implored him to flee, to run from this new danger. It was someone else's problem. Yes, he should leave before he was dragged even further into this mess. After all, he had done enough for these people by releasing them from the cruel clutches of their captors. Whatever moral duty he was bound to had more than been fulfilled. His conscience could rest easily now.

His mind made up, Legolas abruptly turned away from the pitiable sight of father and child lost. He made no effort to clear up the blood-soaked scene of the battle. The filthy creatures would soon be stripped bare by the crows, hungry enough to feast even on tainted Orc flesh.

"Help us," a small, wobbly voice called as Legolas walked away and despite his conviction, the Elf's steps faltered. He turned his head to look at the child. Expressive grey eyes shimmered with tears, glancing nervously towards his father then back to Legolas. "Please…please, help us."

Legolas looked the boy up and down. He was small. It was impossible to guess at an age; no one looked as they should when they were half-starved. Fear and horror were set upon his youthful face, no surprise given he had just witnessed a massacre. But there was pleading and desperation there also.

No, he had vowed long ago to look after only himself. He wouldn't get involved with another now.

"My dad is sick. Please help."

Damn that sweet voice; it reminded him so much of the innocence that had once been abound in the world and that had been so utterly destroyed upon the rising of Sauron.

"Please. Please help," the child cried, clutching to his fallen father with one hand and with the other reaching out beseechingly toward Legolas.

His mind screamed at him to leave. He couldn't afford to get attached to anything or anyone. And yet his heart – his treacherous heart that had always been more tied to his conscience than common sense and the decision he always felt compelled to listen to – told him to stay, to offer help to the desperate child and stricken man.

"Help us," the young child pleaded, his voice choked with emotion.

And Legolas, despite everything, turned back. Taking both his deadly knives in a single hand, the Elf strode purposefully towards the man and child. Upon his approach, the boy, even though he had been the one to ask the Elf to return, cowered close to his father, spreading himself protectively over the barely conscious man.

To Be Continued…