Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom

by faust

4

The Prince

They find Legolas at sunset. He is in combat with a herd of yrch; he is alone, desperate, and deadly. He is a gruesome sight, and a beautiful one. His clothes are torn and dirty, there is blood almost everywhere, and grime, and injury. The front of his tunic is dark, wet, soaked through with blood that almost glints like embers in the orange glow of the dying day as he moves. And move he does—with a graceful fluidity that belies his appearance. His fight is more of a dance than a battle, every movement executed with precise, elegant perfection, smooth and lethal. There is no trace of tiredness in his whirling, no sign of exhaustion in his motions, no faltering, no misstep, no false turn. The fight must have gone on for a long time already, if Legolas's battered form and the number of dead or dying yrch at his feet are any indication, and still there is not even a semblance of weakness in his performance. Not without reason is the king's son distinguished as one of Greenwood's most excellent fighters.

The close battle bereaves him of his most effective weapon, the bow; but he has learnt to wield the long knives with mastery, too, and he employs this art beautifully. He twirls and thrusts, leaps and slashes, pirouettes and stabs, sure-footed and steady, with infallible intuition and impeccable aim. The knives' blades are almost invisible in the waning light: they are dull from the yrch's wan black blood, and no ray of sun reflects in this wet darkness. For every fallen orch a new one seems to emerge from the shrubbery that surrounds the battle ground as if they were waiting in line. There simply is not enough space in the small clearing for all of them to barge in at once, and that might have saved Legolas until now. There is, however, enough space for very many yrch to charge at him; and they do, relentlessly.

The arrival of the small search party instantly attracts the goblin's attention and soon those warriors are engaged in combat with the foul creatures, too. Two of the elves fight alongside of Legolas in the glade, the others seize on the yrch hidden in the encircling dead woods. The diversion relieves Legolas of some attackers, yet the putrid beasts seem to consider him their prime target: their main onslaught is still concentrated on him. And so he fights on, unwaveringly.

Eryniel is not a warrior. She is a queen and a healer; a preserver, not a destroyer. But, of course, as queen of the Silvan folk, she has been trained to wield arms. A short sword, a defensive weapon, for she would never have to use her weapon in offensive combat; she would use her blade only in immediate peril to safeguard her own life in the unlikely case an enemy made it past her personal sentinels. It is not a weapon that would serve her much in open battle, and so, although it is strapped to her horse, she does not reach for it.

She knows her place. She knows her strengths—even though there is little left of them, if she is completely honest with herself—and she knows her weaknesses. She knows that any exposure of herself to the battle would only lead to injury, or even death. Not her own injury, not her own death, no. But the guards—and Legolas—would seek to shield her, would disregard their own defence to protect her; they would willingly give their lives for her safety. The queen would be nothing but a perilous distraction to them.

And so, protected by an impenetrable thorn bush at her back and by the horses that gather around her instinctively, she stands aside and watches the fight, watches Legolas with both maternal pride and anxious trepidation. She knows her son's skill with the long knives is unparalleled, but she is not blind to the fact that there are so many adversaries, that they have pressed him for hours now, that he is injured already—and that even Legolas will tire eventually.

She watches. Impassively, silently begging the Valar to spare her only child. She has never before longed to be a warrior, but at this very moment she almost wishes she were like Tauriel—skilled with a blade, fierce and strong—and not like Eryniel, Queen of Eryn Galen, famous for her beauty, her healing arts, and her singing.

But when an orch suddenly finds an opening in Legolas's stance and lurches forward, his sword making a sweeping motion towards her son's unprotected flank, Eryniel is ready and throws a small eight-pointed iron star. It hits the vile creature right in the centre of its forehead. It is not a deadly hit, the star is too small and too light and there is not enough force behind the throw anyhow. But two knife-sharp points break through the thick grey orch-skin and embed into the bone beneath; which is enough to make the creature reel back and alert Legolas of the danger. One swish of a long white knife fells the goblin, and then the dance continues as before.

Eryniel has always had a good aim, and she holds two more of the throwing stars ready in her hands. When the battle finally is over, the last orch slain, and the wood silent and…not peaceful, but resting, both throwing stars have been sent flying and truly found their targets, and Legolas still lives.

He looks a fright, though. Battered and bloodied, now that the thrill of battle abates he is swaying and he seems to have difficulty adjusting himself to the world around. He takes a haltering step towards his mother, squints his eyes and shakes his head as if he does not comprehend how she can be present.

"Legolas," Eryniel says, "iôn-nín," and "meleth," and "henig." And Legolas follows her voice to her arms.

She does not dare embrace him for she would not inflict more pain on him, and there seems no part of his body spared from injury, both mild and grave. Her hands hover in front of him while she tries to determine which hurt needs care the most, which wound must be healed first.

Then Legolas pulls her into his arms, breathes "nana" into her hair, and the endearment almost breaks her heart. He has not called her thus in centuries. He also clings to her, which he has not done since he had been a child, either, and it tells her more than anything how weak he is.

"Be calm. Let me…," she starts, pushing his body from hers, and puts her hand over a gash at his temple. She closes her eyes, breathes deep and concentrates on the gift of life. But before she has woven one single thread of healing around her son, she is virtually wrenched out of her trance.

As she opens her eyes she finds her wrist held down by Legolas's blood-covered hand. His eyes are clear now, alert and…anxious.

"No," he says. "You cannot…you should not…"

"I can heal you." It is a simple statement. Perhaps he has forgotten her powers, forgotten how much amplified they are in regard of her child. She can heal him, faster than any other healer.

"No, naneth."

Back to the formal name, she thinks, and it irritates her more that she is willing to admit.

"It will cost you too much—you know that."

Oh, Legolas, iôn-nín… Of course, she knows that it will cost her. But she does not care—she is a mother. She is his mother, and that makes it her prerogative to do things that make him whole again no matter the toll it might take on her. But Legolas has always been considerate and gentle, and he cannot allow her to sacrifice herself. Perhaps one day, when he is a father himself, he will understand that a parent does not regard it a sacrifice to risk their life for their child's.

"Let me at least ease the worst of the pain," she tries to reason, but he shakes his head even as she speaks.

"There is no time, my Lady," one of the guards breaks in, clearly uncomfortable with the breach of protocol. Eryniel can see Legolas's relief upon the interruption, though, and perhaps the guard notices it, too. "We must flee," he urges. "A couple of orcs escaped. They will be coming back with new forces soon. And we are in no shape to withstand another fight."

She straightens herself, lifts her chin. The guard, of course, is right. But if they do not spare at least a few moments for tending to their wounded prince then their flight will not take them far. Her son might think she does not notice, but she sees the tremor in his legs, the pronounced paleness in his face, and the stiff posture of his shoulders. He is in pain. He is on the verge of collapse. He will not be able to stay on a horse in this condition, not for long, not till they reach the stronghold. She will not chance it.

"Legolas," she says very softly. "I will not mount my horse before I have restored you enough so you can endure the ride."

The horse closest to the queen flicks its ears and shies back a step. A guard reaches for its mane, murmurs something under his breath—a soft song, a calming tune.

Legolas, however, remains unfazed. "I am in no need of restoration," he lies without hesitation. "'Tis but a scratch." He makes a sweeping motion with his hand that nonchalantly includes his whole body. It is much less accurate than his earlier slashes with the knives, and it would be more convincing if his speech were not slightly slurred.

"We do not have time for this," Eryniel says, still softly.

Legolas has the gall to raise a cocky eyebrow. "Then let us depart now."

It frustrates her to no end—but she knows it is just her own brand of stubborn recklessness in regard of her health calling back to her. Still…she can handle Thranduil Oropherion, she will not founder on his son. And Legolas should be aware of that.

Green eyes lock with blue.

The fragrance of green penetrates the stale air in the clearing, the memory of a song, a tendril of vigour. Eryniel tilts her head.

Then Legolas's glaze slips down. "Naneth, please. We must hurry."

"Yes, we must." She places her hand on his chest. "But before, we must do this."

He opens his mouth—to protest, certainly. But she does not allow it.

Healing already trickles from her fingertips as she says, "I promised your father I will bring you home. Surely you will not make me break that vow?"

The shake of his head is almost invisible; his defeat announced rather by a soft sigh and a sudden stillness. He endures her healing, allowing only the merest alleviation of pain, the tiniest hint of strengthening before he breaks the contact. He takes a step back, but reaches out and lifts her fallen hand to his mouth and briefly presses his lips to her palm.

"It is enough," he says softly, "I am well now." Then he turns and orders, "Departure."

The guards, relief obvious on their faces, glance at their appointed leader, and after a curt affirmative nod from the queen get on their horses.

Eryniel is helped on her mount by Legolas before he swings onto his. She notices that his movements still are stiff and much less graceful than usual, but she hopes that she has done enough. That it will make him last until they are home.

As they haste back through the mirky woods, she suddenly finds she cannot get comfortable on her horse. She has to hold fast to the horse's mane to prevent herself from slipping; she cannot uphold her habitual regal posture. She is fatigued, she realises, far beyond her usual exhaustion. Legolas rides before her, his back taut and rigid, his body clearly not in harmony with his mount. He radiates hurt, and Eryniel realises—for all that it has taken from her—how little she has given him.

She would weep if she had the time for it, or the strength.

Sindarin, just in case...

orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin
Eryn Galen = Greenwood
iôn-nín = my son
meleth = love
henig = my child
nana = mama
naneth = mother