The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
OIOIOIOI
Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Here is the next chapter for you all. Apologies that it took a while longer than usual. Thank you for all the reviews. They fuel me. Thanks also to everyone who is following this story and everyone who has added it to their favourites. I hope you enjoy chapter 69!
OIOIOIOIOIOI
Chapter 69
Among The Damned
Aragorn heard a sudden shout go up among the Human soldiers; not one of despair as all had been previously but rather one of great strength and rejoicing. He frowned, kicking back the Goblin that was trying to snap at his hands, having been divested of its weapon and hands by Anduril just a moment before. What could possibly be worthy of celebration when the odds were so seriously stacked against them? Still, he felt a palpable sense of determination build up in the air, refreshing the soldiers into fighting harder for their cause which moments ago was believed lost.
The sense of celebration soon dissipated though, for the Haradhrim and Easterlings come from the Anduin had finally joined in the battle. One small mercy was that their uncoordinated, gigantic steeds took out more Orcs than Men as they made their way towards the hub of the fighting. Suddenly, crude versions of arrows and spears were raining down upon them and yet more Humans fell around Aragorn with agonised screeches.
"Shields!" Aragorn yelled to all those around him still standing and immediately shields were raised above their heads to protect them from the arrows. "Archers, fire!"
The arrows come from the ground were almost comical in the face of what was being returned at them. The small darts slammed into the sides of the giant creatures bearing the towers holding the Men, seeming to have no impact at all. What then could bring such a beast down, Aragorn wondered. Nothing in their arsenal, that was for sure.
Still, there was no time to dwell on the hopelessness of the situation he had led them into. He vowed to himself once more that as long as he could stand he would kill every ally of the Shadow that he came across, even if it killed him in turn.
The men around him seemed to be of much the same opinion. They fought bravely, sometimes even recklessly in their pursuit of victory. Aragorn found himself proud of them. They still looked to him for guidance and he noticed that many stayed close so that he remained in sight, as if he was a beacon for their hope. It was an immense responsibility but not one he particularly wished to shirk. How he had progressed, he wondered to himself. Just a few years ago in his bedroom in Edoras, he had been terrified by the weight of what he carried, not just the lives of hundreds of Humans but the small gold band in his pocket too. Now, on the battlefield, when things looked so close to failure, it didn't all seem quite so terrifying. Legolas' advice of taking one small step at a time came back to him and it comforted him further still. That was what he would do now.
Suddenly, the Wraiths banked sharply in the sky, all converging above one point on the edge of the battlefield. Aragorn looked toward that direction but it was useless trying to see anything. He wondered though what could have gotten their attention. Perhaps, he thought, the same thing that had bolstered the spirits of the Men. He hoped so. They needed something to change the fortunes of this battle.
An ear-piercing shriek came from the Nazgul, leaving Man and Orc fighting the urge to cover their ears to block the unearthly sound. They were angry, fiercely angry. That cheered Aragorn significantly. But his good cheer dissipated when they decided to take their anger out on the Human army. They swooped low down, aiming for something specific on the ground it seemed but as they came down, one after the other, each came back empty-handed. Whatever had annoyed them so had also avoided them and it seemed to enrage them further.
Men scattered all around to avoid this new diving terror. They were well aware after the attack on Osgiliath that these were the most dangerous creatures they would meet on the battlefield and they brought with them a feeling of deep, awful magic that permeated the air, making it thick and heavy with doom.
"Aragorn! Help me!"
The young man spun around at the familiar call close behind him and very nearly fell over in shock at what he saw. Janor was stumbling towards him, sword gripped tight in his left hand whilst his right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Aragorn saw why a second later. The hand was completely missing, severed it seemed in the battle. The Ranger looked to be in complete shock, his face so pale that he looked as though he were already nearer a corpse, walking to find salvation from the king he had sacrificed so much for.
The moment Janor reached Aragorn he toppled helplessly into his arms, sword falling from his weaker left hand. Aragorn went down with him, unable to think clearly for what seemed like a long moment. Then finally, the reality of what had happened to his good friend kicked in and he looked up from the motionless Human to shout for help. None came, of course. Everyone was too involved in keeping their own limbs attached to heed any of the numerous cries of distress.
"Help me!" Aragorn cried louder above the din, slightly concerned that crouched on the ground like this could very well lead to being trampled to death. "Help!"
At last someone came. It was Ciaran, who it seemed had stuck with his Ranger companions. He skidded to a halt on his knees before Aragorn, eyes wide with shock. His commander was injured in such a horrific way.
"Take him to the walls of the city and find shelter there. Then return to help us in the battle," Aragorn instructed before mumbling to himself, "I cannot lose any more soldiers." When he looked up though, Ciaran's eyes had not moved from the bloodied stump, cut off just above the wrist, where Janor's hand had once been. "Ciaran! Now!" Aragorn snapped, jolting the young man from his thoughts. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
Aragorn transferred Janor to his younger friend carefully and thankfully the man stirred at the movement. "Rouse him and go."
Leaving them behind, Aragorn made himself move on. He could not dwell on this injury to one he considered a true friend. There was work to be done. And the tragedy just made him all the more determined to make the Shadow pay for their evil.
OIOI
He had anticipated this. Of course he had. The Mouth of Sauron was no meaningless minion whose death would be lost in the masses. He had great worth to the Shadow and to Sauron in particular. It was to be expected that his allies in the skies would take his murder personally and react with open hostility toward the one who had wielded the knife. Not that Legolas cared. That he had them angry, these ones who thought themselves above such mortal emotions, brought a thrill of delight to him.
The Nazgul dived in determination, one after the other, on their terrifying steeds, searching for the murderer in the melee. But he was too quick for their cumbersome beasts. He darted amongst fighting Orcs and Men, each time avoiding the swooping creatures by a little more. He dared, once confident enough that he could outrun them, to specifically aim for groups of the Enemy so that the sharp Fell Beasts' claws would rip through the Orcs and Uruk-hai rather than just grabbing empty air – or worse still, any unfortunate Man who might be in the way. It worked a couple of times. Legolas heard the shrieks of pain and the heavy thudding of Orc bodies around him as they were tossed carelessly to the ground. He tried for one of the giant beasts carrying the Haradhrim, thinking how wonderful it would be if the Nazgul took out their own massive allies, but that tactic didn't work. They were too big a target. The Beasts simply banked sharply before they ran into the creatures. Still, it spooked the huge steeds, sending them off course and, Legolas hoped, perhaps buying the Men on the ground a little time.
It wasn't long before the Nazgul gave up on their pursuit. It was a useless exercise from the air, they understood. And they were not yet bold enough to land simply to kill one single Elf.
Legolas almost grinned at this retreat. It felt like a victory that he had outwitted the Wraiths. There was little time for such celebration though. The Men were outmatched and outnumbered, that much was obvious. He found a large grouping of Uruk-hai fighting Men and threw himself into the skirmish instead.
The aching that had grown in his arms and legs from the exhaustion of battle had disappeared somewhat during the last few minutes, adrenaline flowing through his veins faster than before. It would sustain him for a while, although he knew he would pay for it before the end.
"Legolas?" The Elf turned to find that one of the fighters going up against the Uruk-hai was none other than Eowyn herself. She was fighting alongside the Dwarf Gimli. Of course, Legolas had known that Eowyn had refused, despite her brother's fervent protests, to remain behind in Minas Tirith with the healers and incapable whilst others went out to fight for the Freedom of the same Middle Earth that she lived in. It was only natural that she would also be out on the Pelennor now. Gimli's presence made Legolas wonder whether her over-protective brother hadn't assigned her a protector to keep her safe. He almost smiled at that thought. Knowing the pride of the Dwarves, Gimli would not have taken kindly to such an assignment.
"Eowyn."
"Have you seen Eomer?"
"I haven't seen anyone but a few Gondorians who scattered when the Nazgul began descending."
"Right." She deflected a blow from an Uruk scimitar with a move that Legolas himself had shown her and he was impressed by her strength.
"I'm sure he's around somewhere, miss." Gimli shot a grin in her direction. He looked to be doing well enough. Not a fresh mark on him or on his tattered leather armour. The Dwarves might have been a short people but they were sturdy enough and well versed in the art of battle.
"Gimli is right. Concentrate on what you have to do here and nothing else." Legolas looked up as they went back to their fighting, pushing the Uruk-hai back towards their companions so that the numbers were evened out somewhat.
For a moment, Legolas considered searching for Aragorn. He had not seen the man since he had called the attack order. But he had to heed his advice to Eowyn and focus on the now, not on concern for another. The Men were holding their ground against the Uruks and the Orcs and even the superior fighters the Easterlings. It was the huge creatures carrying the Haradhrim with their bows and arrows and spears that were the real problem. Quick assessment had always been necessary in Mirkwood and as a commander he had trained hard to be able to look at a situation and determine the best way to get around it or confront it. There was nothing easy about taking down these enormous creatures. They trampled everything in their path. Human arrows bounced off of them like they were but useless twigs; their skin was simply too thick for them to penetrate, even at close range. The creatures were spooked easily though, which was something, but scaring them would undoubtedly only cause more chaos as they stumbled around dangerously. He scanned their huge forms looking for a weak spot. His eyes could only pick out one and it would be an impossible shot, even if he was as good an archer now as he had been when he commanded a patrol in Mirkwood. Or, at least, it was impossible from this angle.
"Gimli, come with me!" he called out to the Dwarf.
Gimli looked up at him in surprise at being summoned again so abruptly by the Elf. Then he looked to Eowyn, thinking of his promise to her brother. But the woman seemed to be doing well enough on her own and she was now surrounded by Gondorians. Decision made, he hurried towards the already retreating Elf. What Eomer didn't know couldn't hurt him; and he was not afraid of the Rohan man. Dwarves feared no Man.
Squaring his shoulders in renewed determination, Gimli nodded and turned away from the fighting woman of Rohan. "What are we doing?" the Dwarf asked, hefting his dripping axe over his shoulder.
"Taking out the enemy."
He could have demanded to know what on earth that cryptic explanation meant but Legolas was hurrying fast ahead of him already. The last time, Gimli had found himself quite at ease watching the Elf's back – although he had received some stick from his xenophobic father when Gloin had heard of his brief affiliation with Legolas. So he followed behind Legolas now without further comment, expectation that they might be something important to the cause building in the pit of his stomach and making the adrenaline surge away the heavy tiredness in his limbs.
Legolas led Gimli quickly and deftly through the tightly packed battlefield. He aimed for a creature indiscriminately. It didn't matter which one went down yet. The Men of Gondor were understandably avoiding the massive beasts wherever they possibly could, fearful not just of their impossibly big feet but also the warriors who sat astride them. Up close, they looked even more terrifying and Legolas felt his heart jolt slightly, fearful. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
But something had to be done and no one else had come up with anything and he was resolved.
On his way towards the nearest creature, Legolas retrieved several things from the ground without even stopping: dropped spears, arrows, darts, swords, everything he could carry. He thrust them all behind him at Gimli, who took them despite a startled cry every time Legolas shoved some piece of sharp weaponry into his hand without due caution.
"Stop here." Legolas brought them both to a halt. "I need you to distract it."
"Distract it?" echoed the Dwarf in stunned disbelief at what Legolas was proposing, his eyes rising to the enormous beast stood not thirty feet from them. "How?!"
"The rider."
Squinting up again through the mist, Gimli caught sight of the Haradhrim rider, sitting atop the creature's thick neck holding in his hands something akin to reins, which were attached by cruel looking hoops through the beast's flesh.
"I need them not to shoot at me."
"And the way you're going achieve do that is to have them shoot at me?"
"Precisely."
"That's your plan?!"
"Yes, Gimli."
"And just what are you going to be doing whilst I'm drawing all the fire and putting my neck on the line?"
Legolas shot him a grim smile then looked up at the creature heading towards them. "Stand well back when it falls."
At first, Gimli chuckled at this, thinking that surely Legolas had to be kidding. When no trace of humour could be found on the Elf's face though, the smile fell behind his beard. "You're not seriously going to take that thing down? Legolas?"
"Wish me luck." With that, Legolas was gone, running head on at the creature, seemingly without fear.
"Legolas! Idiot Elf," Gimli muttered under his breath, scowling after the foolhardy being. Then, when he saw arrows start to fly towards the running Elf as his approach was noticed, he set about doing as asked, throwing all the weaponry that Legolas had collected from the battlefield at the rider atop the giant creature. It worked. Fire immediately turned to Gimli.
The second he was close enough, Legolas whipped out his twin white knives and leapt at the moving leg of the huge beast carrying the Haradhrim. Slamming his knives into the thick hide of the creature, Legolas clung on tight as he was thrown first left then right in time with the natural walking movement of the great leg. Above him, he heard a roar, perhaps of pain, at the impalement, and Legolas felt the tremble as the steed shook its great head, but the creature barely broke stride. Using all his strength, Legolas tore out one knife with a pulse of slick, hot blood, before securing it into flesh just above, effectively using the knives to create climbing rungs up the leg. It was not easy. The constant movement made it awkward and the sheer thickness of the creature's limbs made implanting the knives harder than ever. But he persevered as best he could, refusing to give in to the exhausting toll his actions were taking on his already battered body.
Towards the creature's belly it became easier as the flesh was thicker and easier to shove the knives into. But by then his arms and legs were burning fiercely and his shirt was soaked in sweat and red with blood. No arrows rained down on him though so he assumed that Gimli was drawing fire well enough from below.
Finally, he reached his first destination – the strap wrapped around the giant creature's belly that secured the tower upon which the Haradhrim sat. Holding on with just one hand, Legolas used his free knife to slash at the strap, cutting out a swathe of flesh as he did so and making the creature roar again in agony.
Pulling out his other knife, Legolas grabbed the strap that held the now precariously perched tower and pulled, at the same time gaining some distance up the creature's side as well as pulling the tower down to fall from the great height. It worked. The Haradhrim had not been expecting such a thing to happen and didn't even have the time to fire their arrows down at Legolas before they found themselves toppling from the creature they rode to the ground below. The fall killed them all instantly, their bones breaking, necks snapping.
Legolas, meanwhile, managed to dance on feather-light feet up its belly, across its side and onto the creature's back. It didn't notice his presence, although seemed agitated that something heavy had been liberated from its back. Strolling easily along the length of its ridged spine, Legolas took out the startled rider, who, so involved with ducking Gimli's flying objects that he had barely noticed the raucous behind him, with a quick twist of the thick neck, throwing him down to join his comrades on the ground. Then, Legolas drew his bow and notched three Orc arrows all at one. He fired three directly into the creatures head and it swerved so dramatically that Legolas found himself almost thrown off. Had he had a Human's balance, he would have plummeted to his death. As it was, he managed to steady himself, running across the creature's head and onto its face, which was big enough that he could easily gain footing. He moved along to the creature's tusks, holding on tight and using all his balance to stay steady as the injured creature tossed its head from side to side. Legolas pulled out four more arrows. Two he fired hard into the right eye and the other two instantly into the left.
That was it for the creature. It could do no more. Dead almost instantly, its knees buckled beneath it and it went crashing to the ground. Legolas held on tight as it fell, crouching so he could grip the sharp tusks, keeping his eyes on the ground so that he could jump if it crashed down on its face.
He was forced to jump anyway, because the concussion from its falling would have thrown him off forcefully if he remained. He leapt gracefully away, running a short distance to be certain that no part of the huge monster would fall on and crush him.
He came to rest twenty feet from the fallen creature and not far from Gimli, who was standing staring at the dead beast open-mouthed in shock.
When Legolas came towards him though, Gimli shook his head, forcing the awe off his face to glare at the breathless, sweating Elf.
"I suppose I'm supposed to be impressed by that," the Dwarf dead-panned gruffly.
Legolas smiled wearily at him. "Not even a little?"
"Maybe a little," conceded Gimli as a smile worked its way onto his face. After all, it was quite a feat and they had once again worked well together.
"Come, my friend. If you are up for it, there are more yet to vanquish."
"More?" Gimli noticed that Legolas looked thoroughly exhausted from bringing down just that one beast; he wasn't sure that he would have the strength to take any more of them out. And yet, the Elf moved lithely past him, wiping his blood-caked knifes on his trousers as he did so, steeled for the next task. Gimli thought of the other men around on the battlefield. Would they be able to do what Legolas had done? Would they have the strength or the courage? Surely not. The young Dwarf knew little of the Elves, only what he had been taught in his childhood and the records regarding the Firstborn, with whom the Dwarves had relatively little to do with at the best of times, were sparse indeed. Most of what Gimli had learned had come from stories passed down from the ancient generations when the Dwarves were still young and the Elves already ancient. And naturally, few of the tales told to him by his father, grandfather or the elders were complimentary. They spoke of how the Elves distanced themselves from the other races, taking themselves out of the world and turning a blind eye to the world's suffering, leaving it to the other races to keep safe the lands. But they were at least accurate in describing the Elves' abilities. They were light of foot, fast, quick-witted and excellent fighters. Legolas had so far proven all of these things. Why now should Gimli begin to doubt?
So, he collected up weapons from the ground just as the Elf had done earlier, as he followed Legolas towards their next target – a slightly smaller creature bearing a tower that stood a story lower than the other. An easier target, Gimli thought. Perhaps Legolas was pacing himself after all.
"Ready, my friend?" Legolas asked easily, although he didn't wait for the reply before he charged in the same manner as before at the creature.
OIOI
"Legolas," Aragorn smiled when he saw one of the great beasts go down in a cloud of dust. No other he knew of could have pulled off such an incredible feat.
"He's mad." Faramir was staring at the space where the giant creature had been just a second ago with shrewd eyes and a look of slight distaste upon his face. To him, it seemed foolish to risk one's neck simply for the sake of showing off.
"Yes. But at least he is doing something useful."
"Are you suggesting that I am not?" demanded Faramir as he cut the head cleanly off a grinning Orc with more relish than was strictly necessary. The creature was so disfigured that it was barely recognisable even as that foul race but that did not dull the pleasure Faramir took from its death.
"No."
"We should go and help him." By some quirk of fate, the three commanders - Faramir, Aragorn and Eomer - had finally been brought together in a single skirmish. Unfortunately, that meant that the Orcs were drawn to them all the more. They could practically smell power and with three such powerful warriors all fighting together, it must have been nearly irresistible to them.
"How could we help?"
"I don't know."
Aragorn fought a smile when he thought of Eomer, who had never been too keen on the company of his testy Elven guardian, actually wanting to seek him out to aid him. "I'm sure that Legolas is doing just fine on his own." In truth, Aragorn knew that they had enough to worry about without going after creatures that, for Men at least, would have been undefeatable. "And if he isn't, he's sensible enough to back off."
"Sure, that sounds just like him," muttered Eomer sarcastically as he searched for his next victim.
This much, at least was unfortunately true, and it caused Aragorn to worry a little for his guardian. But what could he do in the midst of battle? Legolas would not take on something he couldn't handle. Always had Aragorn trusted him, he could not stop now.
OIOI
'Protect the Mumakil,' Legolas had heard some of the Haradhrim yelling as he and Gimli made their way through the giant creatures one by one. At least now he knew the names of the animals he was systematically bringing down with the aid of his Dwarven companion. The warning called from the Enemy did little to slow their pace though. Whenever the Mumakil riders caught on to one tactic, Legolas and Gimli instantly switched to another. They did not just bring down the creatures but they attacked Orc, Haradhrim, Easterling and anything else under the veil of the Shadow that dared to stand in their way and prevent them from reaching their targets.
It was an impressive sight. But they could not deny that they were fast running out of steam. Such exertions conducted by beings already on the brink of exhaustion were immensely draining and their tactics were becoming steadily more haphazard and reckless. Legolas had made the nearly impossible climb up Mumakil hide using just his sharp white knives five times by now and his arms and legs ached almost beyond endurance from the effort it took. His hands were cut where he occasionally sliced his flesh on his own knives by accident and there had been far too many close calls as arrows were fired down at them from atop the enormous beasts. He did not know how much more he could achieve in this fashion.
Gimli too was tiring. The riders sat high upon the heads of their huge steeds and continuously throwing so far and with such accuracy was draining.
And yet, together they persevered, spurred on by each separate victory achieved and the delighted cries of the Allies whenever they succeeded in a fresh kill. Whenever both felt too exhausted to immediately take down another animal, they simply moved on to hand to hand combat for a spell or Legolas could collect up some arrows and shoot some of the Haradhrim riders down from their elaborate wooden towers, confident that all the time Gimli was watching his back on the ground. In fact, the Dwarf seemed to go out of his way to keep the creatures away from Legolas whenever he, rather than admitting that he needed a while to regain his breath, suggested ridding the field of some more Orcs; it was as if the Dwarf was protecting him not just from the Shadow but himself as well. Once, Gimli had, as they ran in the direction of yet another Mumakil, shouted to the Elf that he needed to rest before taking on the next. He had noticed Legolas stumble, a sure indication that he needed to pause before taking on the creature they were working towards. The Elf's reaction to the shouted suggestion had been to blatantly ignore the comment while at the same time doing just as Gimli suggested. Rather than truly pausing though the Elf stubbornly took out his irritation on the unfortunate grouping of Goblins that happened to be passing them in that moment. Against an irritated Legolas being watched the whole time by the ever critical Gimli, the creatures never even stood a chance.
The easy alliance of Elf and Dwarf was broken rather abruptly when Gimli found himself facing down a true monster of an Orc during one of their short 'respites', as Legolas liked to call them. It was highly ranked, perhaps the highest amongst the regular Orc army, certainly the highest ranked Gimli had encountered so far, and clearly come from Mordor. Gimli was guarding Legolas as he took shots at the towers atop the next beast that they were planning on bringing down when, momentarily distracted when he spotted a Goblin aiming its arrow at Legolas' exposed back, the Orc snuck up behind him, striking down with its broadsword and catching Gimli completely off guard.
His armour saved him. The mighty blow glanced off his helmet, which fell from his head and bounced on the blood-soaked ground. Stunned, Gimli fell to the ground only a moment after his helm. No serious injury had been inflicted and yet dizziness assailed him and he found that he could not get up immediately as he would have wished. Perhaps, he wondered idly as the grinning Orc bore down on him, he had a concussion. Every time he blinked, white light assailed him and each time it became harder to open his eyes again.
When he did finally force his heavy eyelids apart, the giant Orc was no longer standing over him but rather lying dead a few feet away from him with the pearly white handle of Legolas' knife penetrating from its armoured chest.
"Quite a throw, Elf," mumbled the Dwarf in surprise at the ferocity it must have taken to implant the knife so deeply through solid metal armour.
Legolas was suddenly at his side and Gimli squinted up at him, head aching fiercely. "You should be more careful," the Elf admonished lightly, eyes darting to look about himself for danger before going to Gimli to assess for injury. He didn't like what he saw. Blood was oozing from the Dwarf's hairline, spilling freely over his forehead, down his nose and dripping off the end to splash on his filthy trousers. Head wounds were notoriously dangerous, Legolas knew, and there was little doubt that the Dwarf was altered.
"Was watching your back, Elf," Gimli said but the words were worryingly slow and slurred and felt awkward forcing themselves around his tongue.
Checking once again around him to ensure that nothing was about to attack, Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm and dragged him to his feet with a struggle. "Come, my friend."
"Where…?" Gimli looked behind him as Legolas led him away. "But…the Mum…"
"We shall deal with the rest later. We must get you to a healer first."
"Heal…? Why?"
"Because you have been hurt."
Gimli raised his hand to his aching head, groping briefly for his helmet, which was no longer where it was supposed to be, he realised with bemusement. "No. It's nothing. Just a scratch," he protested as he twisted in Legolas' grip to look for his lost helm.
"It is more than a scratch."
"But…" Once again, Gimli's hand came up to probe his head wound, as if trying to convince his newest fighting companion that there was nothing at all wrong with him. He failed miserably though. When he pulled his hand back to inspect it, thick blood coated his fingers. For a moment, he couldn't equate it with the pain that rammed the inside of his skull. His mind told him that it was simply blood from another hurt during the vicious battle. And yet it was red, not the black of the Orcs. "Huh," he muttered almost to himself, rubbing his finger and thumb together as though to confirm that it was real and not a figment of his imagination. Suddenly, his legs buckled beneath him and he would have fallen had Legolas not been holding him up by the arms.
"Come, Gimli," Legolas almost growled, hauling the Dwarf back onto his feet and taking a stumbling step forwards. "I will not carry you!"
"What happened?"
Legolas span on the spot, taking a startled Gimli with him, to face the sound of the voice he recognised. "Eowyn!"
"He is hurt."
"Yes. An Orc hit him."
"No! I'm fine," insisted the Dwarf woozily with a wave of his hand, even as he leaned against the Elf's side for support as he struggled to regain his footing after Legolas' abrupt movement.
"I need to get him to a healer," Legolas told her, shifting his arm around the stout creature to keep him upright. The Dwarf was heavier than he expected, he did not relish the thought of having to carry him back to the city should he fall.
"I don't need…healers." Gimli hefted his axe rather weakly up a little way but it dropped to the ground, almost hitting Legolas' toe in the process. "There is battle to be…done."
"No more battle for you," Legolas couldn't help but smile a little.
"I'll take him. I know where a healer is helping another on the field," assured Eowyn, passing her arm around Gimli's shoulders. Her shrewd green eyes raked across Legolas as the Elf made sure that Gimli was standing before handing him over to the woman. "You are hurt too," she observed, her gaze on the torn fabric of his shirt. By now it was ripped and dyed with more red than its original colour.
"I am well, Eowyn. Get him to a physician with all haste. That head wound needs seeing to."
"But won't you need help? I've seen what you've been doing, Legolas, and you cannot possibly do it alone."
"Don't worry. I will be fine on my own." He offered her a brief smile before going to turn.
Before he could leave though, a loud, keening cry came from just above him and he could feel one of the Fell Beasts swept down from the skies. Legolas tried to call a warning to the woman and Dwarf but it was too late. Great claws swept over them, knocking both Gimli and Eowyn down and throwing them a way across the ground as though they were nothing but dried leaves. Legolas watched in horror as they fell hard in a mass of flailing limbs, limp as they lost consciousness, and the Beast, bearing its Dark master, came to land in the space it had just cleared.
His eyes were locked for a moment on the fallen woman and Dwarf, who remained motionless where they had landed. But the Wraith before him demanded his attention more than his fallen friends.
There was no way of knowing whether this Nazgul was one of the ones he had faced once before in the cave when they had first attacked. To him they all felt the same. But the thing fairly radiated evil as only the Nazgul could. The feeling swept over him in waves that had an almost physical effect on him. He staggered a little but kept his balance with a struggle. He could not fall now; it would be the end of him.
The Wraith sat atop his terrible, snarling steed for a long moment, simply watching Legolas with ultimate serenity, like a fearsome predator that was satisfied that it had its pray trapped and that Legolas was beyond escape or aid.
If the loathsome creature itself had not been enough to chill Legolas' blood then the unbelievable power radiating from its towering black form would have done the job. Its entire body screamed of the Shadow, purer than anything else he had ever encountered, even the Mouth of Sauron whom he had so recently bested, and for a moment Legolas could well have believed that he were looking into the very heart of Sauron himself. The Wraith seemed entirely unconcerned by the fierce battle raging around it. There was no anger in its form, just a deep, impossible malice that was almost too potent to bear.
Legolas wanted to run. He wanted to turn tail and run away as fast as his aching legs could carry him. It would have been an act of cowardice, he knew, but he found that he did not care. Never had he wanted anything more than to escape the sights of this monster towering over him. And yet he could not flee as he craved. He was frozen, it seemed, to this very spot, unable to do anything that might save his life. The creature's unrelenting stare, even though it could not be seen behind a spiked helmet of black metal, seemed to burn into his very soul, mesmerising and paralysing him with terror at the same time. He shivered openly, for the creature knew just what effect it had on him; there was no point in hiding it.
He could not think of Eowyn or Gimli when such terrible fear him and allowed himself a second to be glad that they had been tossed aside, for the power of this Shadow was great and he did not want either of his friends to have to confront such evil as he was now fated to do. There was no way out of this for him. He knew this without question. This was his fate, what everything had been leading up to. All those sneaking suspicions that his end was on the horizon had finally materialised. He should have been glad for the end. But the battle was not done yet. His time was not over and he would not leave this world in this manner.
Legolas again considered that fleeing this particular menace might be the best course of action if only he could coax his treacherous body into moving but he reasoned that he couldn't possibly outrun such a creature and on the battlefield there was no place to hide even if he could move. And yet, he could not fight the Wraith either. Last time he had faced up against these creatures he had barely escaped with his life.
Stood on the spot, unable to move or even react, Legolas tried desperately to get his brain to work, to think his way out of this. For years in his youth Mirkwood had lived with the Wraiths right on their doorstep in Dul Guldur and yet he had never personally encountered one before the beginning of the Final War. He needed to do something now. The Wraith was not just going to sit there forever waiting for him to decide what to do. It must have sensed his indecision as Legolas felt the air around him fairly ripple with laughter. It found him amusing, he realised with a sudden feeling of intense dread. He was only alive now because it was playing with him.
Determined that he would not allow this creature of Shadow to belittle him so, Legolas finally made the decision that sealed his fate. He just hoped he had enough strength left in him for his foolish plan.
It took a second longer than he would have liked for his body to catch up with what his mind wished it to do. Suddenly, however, he lurched forwards, raising both white Elven knives in a quick and perhaps unnecessary flourish. Rather than going for the Wraith though, he attacked the unsuspecting Fell Beast on which the Wraith still perched watching over the battle and waiting for the Elf's move.
Whilst its master had been keeping a close eye on the Elf, the steed's serpentine head had been moving back and forth, as though scanning the battlefield for possible prey, although it was being reined in by the black creature riding it. Hundreds of small but deadly sharp pointed teeth snapped occasionally at something it took a fancy to and Legolas could easily picture it feasting on whatever flesh remained when the battle at Pelennor was done, picking over the remains like a terrible carrion bird.
Legolas pushed aside his revulsion and focused on what needed to be done.
Before the wicked steed could react to the threat thundering towards it with a cry of fury, Legolas' knife had hacked off one side of its neck and it let out a dreadful screech, rivalling even that unearthly calls of the Nazgul. It could do nothing to defend itself once the first blow struck and it seemed to hold no loyalty to its dark rider either; all its senses had been dulled by this first strike against its flesh and it was easy then for Legolas to lash out again with his left hand and entirely severe the creature's hideous head from its long, thin neck.
Momentarily stunned by what he had done, more so even than the Wraith who had had to jump down rather abruptly from his felled steed to avoid being thrown off completely, Legolas stumbled backwards away from the creature as its body followed its head to the ground with a loud thump and a wet billow of mud and blood. That had been remarkably easy, he considered with a private smile. If only the creature's rider could fall so easily then he might just stand a chance. Legolas was not altered enough to believe that to be true though. Slaying the steed had been the easy part.
High above him, Legolas heard the ear-piercing squeals of the beasts' eight companions. They knew what had happened to their companion, and Legolas knew that already they would be longing for revenge upon the one who had stolen their brother from them. The Wraiths riding them though made no sound or attempt to come to the aid of their now grounded leader nor did they allow their steeds to become too distracted by their loss. Tugging hard on the reins, they climbed higher into the air again, heads all turned to different points on the battlefield. They were not worried for the life of the Witchking of Angmar and Legolas did not blame them for their blasé attitude. Indeed, he understood it completely.
"Fool." A single, hissed word, filled with so much festering hatred that it chilled the Elf to the core. No cruel amusement anymore from the Shadow, Legolas noted the change in the air with dread. Sauron and his minions had grown tired of the game at last. The Nazgul had been sent to dispose of Aragorn and his guardian once and for all and no doubt return the Ring the young man possessed to the one they thought to be its rightful owner and now the Witchking was going to do just that. The thought of his ward in such peril sent fear in a shock down Legolas' spine, turning his legs weak and his setting his heart racing furiously. But he had to focus, not on Aragorn but on the creature in front of him. For the moment at least, Aragorn was out of harm's way – or at least so Legolas hoped. There were, after all, eight of the Witchking's brethren circling high above, waiting for the opportunity to present itself and give them what they coveted. Or perhaps they were simply waiting for the end of the battle whereby they could descend onto the Pelennor and sift through the bodies to gain the Ring of Power back for their master.
Legolas steeled himself. His actions had ensured that there was most definitely no escaping for him. He had cast the first blow. He had to see it through to the end now. Raising his knives, slick with the blood of the Fell Beast, he planted his feet firmly apart and tried to shove the tingling sense of terror from his mind and prepare himself for battle with the unbeatable.
The Wraith came to stand before him, maybe ten feet away from him; unlike Legolas, undaunted by the imminent battle. It carried a huge sword in its clawed, gloved hand. In the other hand, it held a simply massive black mace, spiked on a long chain that even resting inert at his side looked horribly threatening.
Swallowing back the bitter taste of fear, Legolas suddenly found himself fervently hoping that the Witchking hadn't noticed that it had been him who had earlier killed the Mouth of Sauron. Such an injury to the Shadow would surely only provoke him further. He adjusted his Elven knives in his hands and for the first time in his battling life, despite the usually comforting presence of the Elven protection and battle runes decorating the perfect blades, they felt so horribly inferior. What chance did he stand?
His father's face flashed through his mind then. His wife and children. And then Erestor and Elrond's proud faces. His kindred. Was he to die as his family and friends had? In terror and praying to the Valar for a quick demise? No! He would not allow himself to come to the same end here on Pelennor. He owed it to them, to their memory, to carry on as he always had. And he had sworn to defend his ward until the bitter end and the War was not over yet. There was much still to do in order to secure Gondor and Aragorn's place in it. He could not fall in this battle.
Things seemed almost to move in slow motion – or so it felt to Legolas. Up until now, he had found the battle fast and unrelenting even when he himself felt weak and sluggish. And yet the Wraith moved slowly, almost floating towards him with long strides of its legs hidden behind layers of tattered black robes. The air crackled with unseen power, as though charged, and it put Legolas even more ill at ease than before. The urge to step back, retreat from this monstrosity was almost overwhelming and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep from doing so.
Much as when he had first battled the Mouth of Sauron in Osgiliath, Legolas found himself curiously mesmerised, as if he was being manipulated by something way beyond his control that had invaded his mind and was playing him as a puppet. He tried to shake off the feeling but could not. The power was too great to resist.
"Die now," the Witchking hissed wickedly.
This was a great moment in the battle that so far he had been naught but an observer to. To get to kill one of the hated Firstborn was a blessing greater than any he could have hoped for. Sauron wanted the boy taken to Mordor. He did not care what happened to the guardian. But the Witchking cared very much. All the Shadow creatures hated the Elves above all else. They represented everything that stood against their master and his dominion. Therefore, they deserved nothing less than the most painful death available. Perhaps, had it been any other Elf, the Witchking would not have himself come to fight. He would have sent one of his lesser Wraiths. He felt no fear for he was untouchable by such simple creatures but to lower himself into battle with a lesser being felt unseemly in a way. But the guardian had been nothing but a nuisance to his master ever since they had learned of the threat of the Human King. Against all of his master's plans, this Elf had stood in the way. That was inexcusable and warranted a death handed out by the Witchking himself.
Legolas said nothing in turn as the Witchking stopped and raised his great mace as though it were made of the lightest steel although Legolas knew that it was not. He could not take his eyes off the evil-looking weapon.
Faster than it seemed he was possible of moving, the Wraith brought the mace down hard, aimed perfectly for Legolas.
Fortunately, Legolas still possessed his Elven speed and dodged out of the way, feeling the breeze created by the fast arch that had passed troublingly close to him ruffle his loose hair. A snarl came from the Nazgul but he was not deterred by initial failure. He was a patient being. It was only a matter of time before the Elf was ended.
Twice more, the great black mace came perilously close to striking him. Both times he managed to duck out of the way a split second before it connected. The blows were impossibly strong, that much was obvious, kicking up dirt as they splintered and split the ground around the Elf. There was no doubt that if they hit Legolas head-on they would be immediately fatal, shattering his bones like brittle twigs and wrenching the flesh from his body.
Due to the attacks and having to dodge every blow delivered by the Witchking of Angmar, Legolas had little chance to get any blows of his own in. His own knives looked paltry and pathetic compared with the massive broadsword and mace of the Nazgul. Legolas found himself wishing futilely that he had a flaming torch with him. Fire had chased the Wraiths away the last time they had met, he recalled. No such weapon was close enough to him now though to be of any help. The nearest source of fire burned far away at the gates of the First Level of Minas Tirith where it still kept out the Orcs. Much too far.
As he ducked low again to avoid a third strike, Legolas rolled forward, bringing himself closer to the being. The Nazgul had not been expecting the bold move as it appeared startled, recoiling ever so slightly from the Elf. Legolas embraced this moment of surprise as a gift, slashing at the Witchking's arm which bore the mace with his Elven crafted knife. The creature let out a terrible, ear-piercing screech as Elvish steel hit true and Legolas dropped his knife with a similar cry of agony. Falling to his knees at the Witchking's feet, he dropped his other weapon to cradle his burning hand. It felt as though it was being scorched, so intense was the heat and pain ripping through his flesh and blood.
The Nazgul were immensely powerful creatures. Even without direct contact, they could harm their attackers. Even though the blow had been delivered by his Elvish blade, Legolas felt as though he had himself been attacked with a physical weapon of the Nazgul. Unnatural heat rushed throughout his body, making him sweat and contracting his throat until it felt as though he was being strangled by the power of it.
If it was possible, then the mood on war-torn Pelennor changed darker still. It was as though the Witchking of Angmar were dictating the air pressure and the clouds in the sky for suddenly both seemed to bear down on the Men remaining alive and all could tell that something in this battle had changed.
He could not remember the last time he had been wounded. It was the Elven steel. It was as horrific to the Shadow as was the Shadow's Black Death to the forces of Light. It recoiled in horror at the slash marring its left arm, cut clean through his armour. The mace, given to him by the Dark Lord himself so that he could triumph in this battle, lay on the ground beyond his reach. Pain. It was so very unfamiliar. But it was replaced a moment later by anger. No. Not anger. Fury. It had been touched by the Light, wounded by one of the Firstborn. That was unacceptable.
Unfortunately, by the time it had recovered its senses, Legolas too had recovered sufficiently to gain his feet. He stumbled up and took a few limping steps away from the infuriated creature. The pain was unbelievable seeing as he had not actually been struck and he knew that despite his moment of triumph he was still significantly weaker than the Wraith looming over him. If such agony could be created by merely scratching the Shadow-creature with his blade then what would actually killing it do to him? Still, he could not worry about the consequences of victory right then. He just had to stay alive and pay the price.
Really, Legolas never stood a chance. He was one Elf against incomparable power. The next few blows delivered by the Wraith were almost impossibly strong, fuelled by its rage at the wound already inflicted by the Elf it was fighting. Worried that he could not withstand the strength of the sword that threatened to pound him into the ground, Legolas retreated back again. There was no shame in running from this monster, Legolas told himself encouragingly. Anyone would have done the same in his position.
But it was too late for retreat now. The Witchking had had a taste of vengeance. It would not be put off by a symbol of withdrawal, not when its pride had been so badly bruised already by Legolas' actions. It wanted blood. As Legolas backed away, constantly checking over his shoulder to ensure that he wasn't about to be taken down by any rogue Orcs – although about this he needn't have worried for they all fled from the Wraith as it approached, more terrified of their own ally than of the Men they were fighting – the Wraith stalked him, long strides taking it easily across the field as Legolas stumbled indelicately through the raging battle.
The force behind the Wraith's strikes was unbelievable and, after parrying just two such blows, Legolas felt his arms weakening almost to the point of being useless. As he predicted would happen, the third strike knocked his knife from his hand. He followed the bright white handle with his eyes as it was thrown away from him.
A sense of satisfaction filled the air then. An armed Elf was an admittedly tricky opponent; an unarmed Elf was barely a diversion to a creature as powerful as the Witchking.
When his weapon was thrown from his grip, Legolas found himself also thrown back. He landed hard on the ground atop a slaughtered Orc carcass, winded by the force of the fall and dazed as his head slapped back against the ground. For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to move. His immobility felt like it lasted an eternity, although by the mere fact that he was not cut in two by the Wraith sword it couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds. Senses returned, Legolas rolled off the corpse just in time to avoid the deadly weapon coming towards him.
The Wraith having to pull its sword from the thick hide of the Orc it had pierced by accident offered Legolas a valuable couple of seconds. He couldn't force his exhausted, battered body upright though. He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. He couldn't escape.
Crawling on his belly, Legolas dragged himself away from the looming darkness of the Nazgul. Death was not in his mind. He would not die here and now. He would not fall to one of them. Grubby fingers groped for some kind of weapon; he didn't care whether it was Human-forged or Shadow. Anything was better than the nothing he now had.
Annoyingly – unbelievably – he couldn't find anything sharp with which to fight the Wraith. In amongst all this warring and he couldn't find a single weapon! Despair began to creep into his mind. What good was he without a weapon?
Finally, as the Wraith approached closer still, Legolas' fingers came into contact not with steel but with wood. An Orc shield. Not a weapon exactly but good enough under the circumstances. Legolas heaved it up and turned himself over so he was facing the Wraith. A mere moment later, the massive broadsword pounded down. The concussion reverberating through the wood threatened to break Legolas' wrists it was so great. The shield, pressed down on him so it touched his body and stole the breath from him and made his ribs ache, splintered showered him and he squeezed his eyes shut automatically to protect them from the shower of tortured wood.
Angered by this new defence standing between it and its prey, the Nazgul snarled, a truly terrible sound that made Legolas shudder, then slammed down again and again with its sword in almost a frenzy.
Certain that the shield would shatter very soon under the force of the attack, Legolas began desperately searching around for anything else that might be of use to him. Nothing. There was nothing!
The shield finally cracked down the middle. The Wraith's brutal pounding was always going to break through at some point; in truth Legolas was amazed that it had lasted this long. When Legolas felt the sword strike again, he shoved the shield upwards, hoping to knock the Wraith of balance for a brief moment in order that he might overpower it and escape from beneath it.
Leaping up to his feet, Legolas threw what remained of the shattered shield aside. This was a mistake he realised far too late.
Although he could not see the Witchking's face from behind the terrible, spiked mask and helmet it wore, Legolas could tell instinctively that the creature was smiling. It had won. They both realised in the same instant.
Finally, Legolas stopped moving away. If he was going to die then it wasn't going to be in retreat. Nevertheless, as the black-robed shade raised its sword, Legolas flinched, his body tensing ready for the killing blow about to be delivered.
Disappointment very nearly drowned him. He had failed his ward, he had failed Arathorn and all of Gondor as well just as he had failed his family before. Tears stung his eyes but he would never allow them to fall before his murderer.
Sword raised high in the air, blade gleaming in the dim light of the torches in the distance, the Wraith went to bring down the killing blow at last.
Suddenly, however, it screamed a terrible scream, louder than ever before. It was not a noise of glee but of anger.
Legolas startled. What could have provoked such a noise?
Then, to his utter amazement, the Wraith, tall and terrifying just a second before, dropped its sword, which clattered uselessly to the ground not far from Legolas' feet, and seemed to fold in on itself. It bent forward in the middle as if bodily injured then arched backwards, unleashing another unearthly yell to the heavens.
Above, the other Wraiths suddenly screamed as well, as one, filling the ears of every warrior still battling down on the field. They banked sharply, as if finally going to the aid of their brother, but then they swept back up, higher into the sky than before.
The Witchking suddenly buckled even further. Its legs folded beneath it and it collapsed to the boggy ground, sinking into the mud, back still arched at an unnatural angle. Now that the Wraith was down, Legolas was able to see the cause of its agony. Behind it, holding limply in her pale hands what remained of a sword, the blade snapped cleanly in half somehow, the tip presumably embedded in the Wraith, stood Eowyn.
The woman met Legolas' shocked eyes after a long moment, seemingly just as stunned as the Elf at what had occurred.
She had seen what was happening to her friend and reacted instinctively, without thought. Running through the mass of fighting to where she had seen the huge black-robed being chasing after Legolas, she had swept up a fallen sword once belonging to one of her now slain people and, while the Wraith was distracted trying to get at Legolas, she had done the only thing she could think of – thrust the sword deep into the back of the creature where she hoped its spinal cord sat.
The reaction had been unexpected. There had been a momentary pause, as if it hadn't known what was happening and couldn't process the truth of its demise. Then the being had buckled and Eowyn had felt the blade snap. She almost fell backwards but just about managed to maintain her balance.
Stunned that he was still alive, Legolas staggered slightly where he stood. He had been injured further during the attack and his arm still felt like it was burning with invisible fire. No doubt Eowyn felt the same – if not worse. Had he encountered even the weakest Goblin in that moment he did not doubt that it would have beaten him in battle. His whole being screamed with pain and exhaustion.
Suddenly, the Witchking let out another wretched screech.
The next thing Legolas knew he was being thrown backwards with such force that he thought he had been hit by the wings of one of the Fell Beasts still circling high above. But there was nothing but the crumbling Wraith before him. It was as if in its final death throes, it had sent out a final weapon; a concussion wave that knocked everything within its path off their feet.
Legolas knew no more and only vaguely heard the terrible crying from above before everything turned black and silent.
To Be Continued…