CHAPTER 11. OUTNUMBERED
Legolas awoke as sharply as if he had been plunged into icy water.
Immediately he sat upright, eyes darting rapidly, a feeling of deep unease falling into the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. His fear was that of an animal sensing a predator on the hunt; an unnerve stronger than he had felt even when he had seen the scout in the mountains.
Suddenly the gently thud of footsteps sounded far off, undetectable to any but the sharp ears of an Elf. But footsteps were not of one being, but many: a host. They were slow, but planted, methodical - a small army on the prowl.
A wave of panic hit him like a horse at full sprint, and he fought to subdue it.
"Gimli." he murmured lowly, moving to the Dwarf's side and shaking him firmly. "Gimli, we have to move. Now!"
"What is this idiocy? It is nightfall still!" Gimli spluttered, his speech drowsy as he awoke.
"Quickly! We must leave this place." Legolas urged him, a note of desperation in his voice.
"Why?" Gimli questioned blankly.
The Elf froze suddenly at the sound of a stick breaking beneath heavy boots, not meters from the tree in which they were perched.
"It's their horse!" the man called out gruffly to his comrades, approaching Arod cautiously. "They must be close by."
Legolas felt a pang of anger as the man neared his horse, a sense of protectiveness borne from a great care for the animal. He held a finger to his mouth to indicate to the Dwarf for silence, and reached slowly for his bow. He slipped it carefully from the branch from which it had been hanging, and immediately drew an arrow. Aiming through the branches, he released, sending it down to meet his target, who fell to the ground with a muffled cry of surprise.
There was outcry from the scout's companions, who broke into a run. He could see the silhouettes of figures approaching, their talk rough and angered.
"Gimli, come!" Legolas demanded, leaping down from the branch and landing, agile and alert.
Gimli made a noise of uncertainty, peering down at the ground doubtfully. Legolas' eyes darted to the approaching figures in the distance, and haste won over - he reached up and seized his friend, plucking him from the tree whilst he spluttered in outrage.
"What are you doing?" he growled, struggling in futile to escape Legolas' vice-strong grip.
"There is no time." he replied shortly, shoving the Dwarf onto Arod's saddle and beginning to untie the knots that bound the horse to the tree.
Deeply regretting tying the tethers so securely, he began to murmur rushed instructions to Arod, the Sindarin words flowing off his tongue with unusual haste. As he untied the final knot, he felt arms grip him from behind.
"Legolas!" Gimli roared, making to jump off the saddle to his friend's aid, while strong arms pinned him down.
"Noro!" the Elf cried over the yells of the enemy. "Run!"
Arod heeded the command immediately, bounding forward at sprint pace and fleeing the conflict, whilst his rider held on for dear life.
"Legolas!" the Dwarf yelled again, tugging furiously on the reins in an attempt to turn the horse around. "Stop! Stupid animal, turn around! Legolas!"
But the steed had already received instruction, and he continued at an unstoppable speed, until horse and rider disappeared from view. Legolas watched his friend escape with a feeling of immense relief, yet his attention was brought immediately back to himself as a pair of hands grasped his arms, tugging them backwards roughly.
"I've got him! I've got the Elf!" the man shouted triumphantly, the grip on his arms tightening as Legolas struggled to pull away.
The sound of footsteps drew nearer, as a crowd of Men came yet closer, their words sinister, weapons drawn. Legolas pulled away with all his strength, violently shaking himself free, and at last the hands released him, if only to grab their sword. He reached for his own blades, snatching them out in a fraction of a second and positioning himself for conflict. He arched agilely to avoid a clumsy swordstroke from a nearby enemy and plunged his blade into his would-be captor, before turning and beginning to fight.
~~~{###}~~~
The King of Gondor's eyes flew open, his body drenched in a cold sweat. He drew sharp, shallow breaths, heart beating at a racing pace. His mind scrambled for the cause of his alarm, but the thought had faded from his mind like a dream just out of the realm of recollection.
"Estel?" murmured Arwen, eyes drifting open sleepily. "What is the matter?"
"Go back to sleep, meleth nin." Aragorn replied soothingly, his hand brushing her flawless, pale skin. Her eyes fell momentarily onto his face with a questioningly air, but moments later flickered closed, her face peacefully restful.
Aragorn waited until Arwen's breaths fell slow and steady before stepping from the bed. His footsteps were quiet and measured as he strode across the dark room, casting long shadows across the marble floor. He opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony, closing them behind him to guard Arwen from the chill.
A cold night wind blew through the city, stark and unwelcoming. The stars had fallen behind a layer of cloud, and the moon was hidden from view. The lights of the city had been extinguished, masking the country in darkness.
The King glanced searchingly out beyond the walls of the city. The White Mountains to the west stood overhanging them with a threatening air, while to the east, the remains of the forests of Ithilien stood, barely visible under the veil of the night.
What is it that I sense is amiss? Aragorn asked himself. Is this danger merely one perceived in dreams, or is it a waking nightmare also?
His thoughts strayed to Tirion, the soldier that he had sent in pursuit of Legolas. The man had been unaware of the danger his king had placed him in, and with a pang of guilt, Aragorn realized that he had taken advantage of the guard's eagerness.
I would have ridden off myself, he thought, attempting to justify his dishonesty. Yet...
He shook his head firmly.
There are no excuses for what I did, not only to Tirion, but to others close to me, he thought savagely. His death would be solely my fault, as would Legolas'.
Aragorn's blood ran cold, and he shivered.
Harm shall not befall him! It is treacherous to even consider such a thing, he thought angrily. Legolas and Gimli will be without harm, I am sure of it.
Yet his thoughts were a lie, and not a shred of certainty hovered in his thoughts. On the contrary, his sense of foreboding deepened as he considered the possibility that his friends had strayed into the path of danger once more.
Please, Eru, do not let them come to harm, Aragorn prayed pleadingly.
~~~{###}~~~
The Elf spun like a whirlwind, his twin blades plunging into his foes with trained precision. The clash of steel-on-steel echoed through the forest, whilst cries of pain issued from his enemies as the front line fell and was continually replaced. He was like a wildcat, sinuously agile and athletic, dodging enemy blades with near-impossible nimbleness. His knives sliced through the air with graceful smoothness, yet brought pain where blades met flesh. His blue eyes were alight with an unstoppable determination, his fight worthy of ten men instead of one. He moved with unmatchable speed and light-footedness, dodging, leaping, twisting, whilst his blades shone scarlet with the blood of his enemies.
Yet even hundreds of years worth of training could not guarantee victory to one so outnumbered. For every man cut down, two more seemed to replace them, and Legolas' calculated and precise movements began to grow in desperation. He slashed wildly at his enemies, dodging the sharp sting of their swords with increasing difficulty as they closed in around him.
Small cuts began to appear on his arms and legs, not deep nor particularly painful, yet they served as a firm reminded of his mortality in battle. The Elf spun faster in a deadly dance, knives raised and in action whilst he simultaneously dodged swordstrokes from his enemies.
The Elf suddenly cried out in pain as he was caught unawares by an attacker from behind, the sharp blade of his sword slicing deeply into his shoulder. Legolas swayed dangerously, his arm in fiery agony, oblivious to all but the burning torture of his wound. His mind went blank as he felt his strength sapped, the will to continue fading as fast as his consciousness.
To continue fighting was impossible, but to give in was not an option. If he was to die today, then he would do so with honor: fighting until the last breath left his body.
The Elf lithely dodged the swing of a sword that narrowly missed his neck, before slashing out at his attackers, like a cornered animal fighting to their last breath. The Men were caught unawares by the resilience of their opponent, and yelled out in anger and surprise. There was a cold resolve in his eyes as he swung the blades, dealing out death and injury despite his own wounds. His stance was proud and defiant, yet his eyes widened as he watched the deep crimson liquid spread across his tunic.
This momentary pause was all it took for his opponents to gain the upper hand, and Legolas flinched sharply as a sword slashed across his torso, delivering the final blow to an already wounded fighter. He doubled over, gasping in pain, the twin knives dropping from his numb hands and clattering to the ground.
The spark in his blue eyes failing, he wavered on the spot, his vision blurring. With a pang of grief he saw a pair of hands snatch up his weapons, and realized that the fight was over. His strength faltering at last, his knees gave out from beneath him, his eyes flickering shut as his body slumped to the forest floor.