So, just before PJ will make this a complete AU, I present you with my take on the Battle of the Five Armies. Please heed the warning: this is about war, naturally there will be some violence. And deaths. Unfortunately, not only people we don't like die, but also those we've come to love. I apologise for any kind of grief I might cause my readers. Be certain I did not kill anyone out of spite or for a cheap effect.

Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom

by faust

9

The Warrior

After that first, slightly embarrassing conversation with his father, in which Legolas almost feels like a green recruit again, barely past his elfling-years, he sleeps. It is not a restful sleep, not at first, for his dreams are haunted by the images of attacking yrch, of scimitars red with elven blood, and of long white knives slicing into empty air where an enemy has charged at him a moment before. Anguishing noises accompany the pictures, shrieking goblin war cries, the screech of metal grinding across metal, the squelch of flesh tearing open.

Pain assaults him, the piercing shock of fresh injuries and the dull burning ache of old, mending wounds. He is certain the hurt belongs not only to his dreams, that it is also part of the waking world which does not cease to exist only because he is not currently a part of it. But he cannot always tell which pain belongs where.

There are times he feels hands holding his head, brushing over his brow, his cheeks; gentle hands that surely do not belong to the nightmares—they are too kind. He hears low voices then too, soothing and familiar, they speak tender, welcome words.

Once or twice—or more often?—he is aroused from his sleep, helped to drink—sometimes sweet water, sometimes bitter potions—and his face is washed with a soft, fragrant cloth. Then, before he can ask to be helped to sit up, he is raised and held upright, and broth is spooned into him. Afterwards, he is too tired to remember why he ever wanted to sit and gratefully allows himself to be laid back down to rest.

But rest does not come instantly, for hands set to work on his body, and this time they are not gentle. They prod and poke, and pull and push, and hold him down when he fights back, and it hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts until his senses blur and then—the dreams begin anew.

He does not know how much time passes in that way, but eventually the dreams cease to be so violent and so terrifying, and every time he wakes he feels more alert, and by and by the pain subsides to a dull memory.

Naturally, he wants to leave the healing hall and return to his own rooms as soon as he can stomach solid food (granted, it is only a fluffy omelette, but it is not broth), wants to go out on patrol the very next day.

Naturally, the healers forbid it. Thalonael in particular acts as if Legolas has been standing at the gates to Mandos's Halls a mere moment ago. The senior healer eyes him anxiously when Legolas stands and flexes arms and legs, carefully bends this way and that, rotates his shoulders. Thalonael's hands hover in mid-air, they flutter closer whenever Legolas winces because a movement pulls at the healing wounds. He reminds Legolas of a blue tit that supervises its fledgling's first attempts at flight—wary, ready to catch it if it might fall. But Legolas will not fall. He has healed swiftly; his wounds cannot have been as severe as the healer's fussing implies.

Naturally, adar sides with Thalonael. He scolds Legolas for not appreciating the healer's efforts enough, and for recklessly ignoring his body's need to fully restore its strength.

"What use would you be on patrol in this shape?" he brushes off the request to be allowed back to duty, pointedly looking at Legolas's middle, where bandages still can be seen through the tunic's loose lacing. "Do not be ridiculous."

But Legolas will not be dismissed so easily. He does not want to remain in the healing halls, there is no need for that. He is perfectly…well, admittedly he might not be in perfect shape to return to duty yet, but he will be soon. The only thing that keeps him from full restoration is being confined to the halls, being subjected to Thalonael's tight scrutiny. He will recover in no time once he is allowed to go out, feel the sun warming his skin and the wood's song filling his mind. Surely, his father will understand that.

But then the debate is abandoned when they hear shouts echoing down from the ramparts. "The serpent, the serpent is dead! Smaug is dead! Bard the Bowman has slain the dragon!"

Busy noise fills the King's Halls after that, for a day and a half, hurried bustle and urgent voices, as the king prepares for departure. Thranduil, well aware of the legendary wealth of Thror that the dragon has hoarded, is gathering the elven host, intent on securing a significant part of the treasure for himself. A significant part, if not all of it. Thorin and his company of dwarves—whose purpose in trespassing upon Woodland realm is no longer a mystery, and who have unleashed the dragon—surely cannot have survived the beast's fury; and therefore, so the king reasons, the hoard is left unguarded and free to be taken by whomever reaches it first. And he fully intends to be the first.

Legolas does not want to take part in the quest; he takes no interest in the riches that might lie hidden in the depths of the Lonely Mountain. But his mother insists, begs him to go along with his father.

"Go with him," she says. "Go with him and watch over him for me. And make certain he takes no more from the treasure than his due."

"But he will not listen to me."

"He will. If you find the right words, and the right tune."

"I am not you, naneth."

She laughs at that, silvery and full of mirth. Then she takes his hand, waits until he allows his eyes to meet hers again, and she lets her gaze pierce into his soul. "Do not underestimate yourself, iôn-nín," she says. "Have I not taught you differently? Have I not taught you to have better esteem of yourself?"

"You have. And you have taught me to not delude myself. If adar wants those riches, he will take them by any means."

She smiles. "Our Lord King desires silver and gems greatly, I do know that; but your father is not deaf to the voice of reason, Legolas."

But the host has not been on the move for very long when it turns out Legolas does not have to be the voice of reason.

Not when the king receives a plea for help from Bard, and immediately redirects his march, hastening to the Long Lake and the ruins of Laketown, the nothingness that is left after the dragon has spit his fire into the streets, has smashed and crumbled the houses with a sweep of his tail. Not when he orders food and tools and other goods to be brought to the town. Not when he leads the host to aid the men in their need, and help them cut trees and build huts to give them shelter. Not when he leaves behind skilled artisans to further aid the men in rebuilding the town as the rest of the host, along with every man-at-arms still able to fight, sets out to march north again, to the Mountain, and the treasure.

The dwarves—Legolas takes the trouble to find out, for he is certain Tauriel wishes to know but might not dare ask—left before the dragon appeared, as soon as the young one was fit to walk.

Tauriel, on whom the King pronounced judgement while Legolas was still confined to the healing halls, is back with the royal guard on probation, stripped of her rank, demoted to a common soldier under Legolas's command.

Legolas would like to apologise to her: he is at fault for her falling into disgrace; he should have made a better effort, should have found more convincing words, should have tried harder to make her abandon the pursuit of the goblins and instead return to the stronghold. Should not have jumped all too willingly at the chance to fight the loathsome creatures. He is the Prince of Greenwood, he should hold his allegiance to his kingly father and his Lord's commands in higher regard than his very own wish to prove himself in battle against the realm's vilest enemies.

But Tauriel is evading him whenever her duty allows it. She does not seek his company when they make camp, does not look into his eyes when she is taking his orders—as if she were suddenly shy of him.

He will have to find out why she would feel so. He also will have to help her regain the king's grace, and to forget about the dwarves. The accurst naugrim whose greed and selfishness have caused this mess, all of it, and who did not even bother to stay and help the people that so kindly sheltered them.

He still does not have to be the voice of reason when on reaching the Desolate Lands they learn that, against all expectations, Thorin and his companions still live and have barricaded themselves in Smaug's liar—and Thranduil does not issue any claim of the hoard for himself but allows Bard to approach the dwarves alone and demand a share of the riches as recompense for the destruction the dragon has brought upon Laketown.

Disgustedly Legolas hears Bard's account of how Thorin has rejected the men's justified request, even though Bard is not demanding anything unreasonable. The people of Laketown aided the dwarves in their time of need—Bard himself accommodated them, fed them, sheltered them—and it brought naught but devastation to the town, death and ruin by the dragon's fire. Yet Thorin, who calls himself "King under the Mountain" now, refuses them any compensation, any restitution, any help. He even refuses to parley any further unless the elven army marches back to Mirkwood—an ultimatum to which no one will accede, for both Thranduil and Bard suspect the dwarf will not keep his word if the host retreats.

Legolas cannot believe the dwarves would repay the men's hospitability so badly, cannot fathom why Thorin shows no pity for the townspeople who earned themselves nothing but death and destruction for their kindness.

"The dwarf's greed knows no bounds," his father says, and Legolas can only agree.

Legolas does not have to be the voice of reason, either, when a messenger, sent to try to negotiate with the King under the Mountain for one more time, is shot at with an arrow and King Thranduil does not repay the dwarves in kind but calmly orders Thorin's fortress be besieged. Not when, after days of patient but fruitless waiting, Bilbo, the hobbit, approaches the camp one night and brings them the Arkenstone—a gem of unparalleled beauty, a family heirloom of Thorin's and his greatest desire—and the news of a dwarven army, less than a two days march away from the valley.

Not when they use the Arkenstone as leverage in parley with Thorin, and Thranduil still puts no claim for any part of the treasure into the deal, even though the dwarf finally gives in and grants Bard a fair portion of the hoard, to be surrendered the next day.

Not when eventually everything culminates as the dwarven army reaches the camp demanding to be let through to the Mountain but is refused to pass, and the messengers Bard sends to the cavern for the promised gold come back empty handed but with the news that, again, they were met with arrows and then Bard proposes to attack the dwarven army that he finds pressing forward along the eastern bank, for he deems a victory within easy reach—but the King of the Woodlands stands tall and straight and declares, "Long will I tarry ere I begin this war for gold."

If Bard is surprised at the king's wish to wait and see if reconciliation is still attainable, Legolas is not. Because his naneth was right, the king does desire silver and gemstones, but he is not unreasonable—and there is one thing the King of the Woodland cares for much more than for treasures: his people. And while his father has never shown restraint when it came to defending the realm, to fighting against spiders and yrch that endangered the kingdom, he will not risk the lives of his subjects simply to amass wealth.

And finally Legolas does not have to be the voice of reason when his father's hopes for further negotiations are shattered by a sudden advance of the dwarves; when the first arrows whistle by, Bard swears, and Thranduil shakes his head cursing silently and motions Legolas to get his archers in line; when the sky is darkened by a cloud of bats coming up from the North. No, Legolas does not have to be the voice of reason then, because it is Mithrandir, the wizard, who suddenly appears between the lines and raises his voice. His words of reason, and his ill tidings of an army of goblins and wild wolves advancing on them, change alliances instantly.

Within moments, Legolas finds himself attending a war council with his king, Bard the Bowman, and the dwarf lord Dain. There is no thought of gold or silver or gemstones anymore, only of tactics, of battle formations and movements, and how they are going to lure the goblins into the valley where they will be trapped between the mountain's arms and can be attacked from the high ground. And when everything is settled and positions for all troops have been agreed upon, he is taken aside by his lord father and instructed further and in detail.

It is not the kind of detail he would have expected, though. "You will not," adar says, "do anything foolish. You will not charge headless and with no regard to your own safety. You will not lead your company from the front line."

"But I cannot hide behind my soldiers. I am not—I have to set a good example."

"You have to lead them." The king turns around, he gestures to the camp, to the men and elves who prepare for battle. "Those are accomplished warriors, they will need no instruction as to how to fight. But they need orders, they need to know of our plans, they need someone who is responsible for them, someone who makes certain they operate as a host, not as single combatants."

"I do know—"

Thranduil silences him with an impatient hand. "How are you going to lead them if you fall at the first attack?"

"I will not fall at the first attack." How can adar assume—

"No, you are right, you will not." His father inclines his head and allows the tiniest of smiles curl the corners of his mouth, but Legolas is not so foolish as to mistake that for agreement. "Because you will not charge from the first line. Because you will act as a true leader and see to it that you can lead your troops till the very end of this battle."

Legolas opens his mouth but then thinks better of it. Now is not the time for defiance, anyway, and there is something in his father's eyes, something peculiar. He cannot fathom what it is, but…

"Trust me," the king says softly. "Trust me, iôn-nín. I have seen the ills of war. I know how a leaderless host disintegrates. I know…I know the price of war."

And now Legolas can fathom what is in his father's eyes: horror. It is not what you would expect in the King of Greenwood's eyes, and someone less close to Thranduil might not even recognise it, but it is there. It is old horror, a mere memory, and Legolas knows for certain from where it origins.

Dagorlad. The plains before Mordor, where Thranduil took part in the last battle of the War of the Last Alliance. He does not speak of it often, but, of course, Legolas knows the tales, knows what the Battle of Dagorlad has done to the wood elves, what it has cost them—and his father. Two out of three Silvan warriors were slain there, and their king, Oropher. And now Oropher's son is King of the Woodland, and about to lead his people into another battle against the Darkness.

His people, and his son.

"I will try and stay in the second rank—if you bid fair to do the same." There is no challenge in his words—Legolas would not make that mistake—but no cushioning, either. It is a statement from one leader to another. Or perhaps this is the voice of reason speaking after all, Legolas muses, and he hopes that Thranduil is as open to it as his naneth claims.

It earns him a genuine smile from his father, a wry "very well, Lord Silver Tongue," and an almost affectionate wave of a kingly hand as he is dismissed to go and pass orders to his warriors.

It does not take long to summon his troops, lead them up the hill, bring them into position. And so, a fortnight after the birds brought the tidings of Smaug's demise to the king, Legolas—by now hale and hearty despite the long march through the Desolate Lands, thankfully fit for any duty just in time—finds himself crouched low behind a boulder, well up the southern spur of the Lonely Mountain.

A tense calm has settled over the warriors. Quiet, anticipation, concentration. They are listening intently into the misty air, even though there is no other sound but the soft susurrus of the wind. The crows that accompanied the elven host from the time they left the stronghold have retreated from what will soon become the battlefield they so eagerly await. They hide somewhere safe, just as all the animals of the mountain and the valley do. There is not a single hare to be seen, not a single field mouse's rustling to be heard, not the chirrup of crickets or the buzzing of bees.

Legolas reaches deep into his fëa, listens to the golden green tune that has been within him for all his life. The song is muted, almost to the point of complete stillness; and as he prods deeper he meets resistance at first—as if his mother is deliberately blocking him from their bond—then calmness washes over him, and warm assurance. It does not completely ease his nagging worry about her but enables him to put it aside to be dwelled upon later.

Then he shifts; he cranes his neck, lets his keen eyes wander over the stretch of the valley below him, but he does not see the vanguard of the goblin army. He lifts his eyes up to the crest of the eastern spur, where Bard is positioned looking out to the north. All is quiet there, too, no movement, no signals. All is…quiet.

He waits.

Waits, and for now, for these last moments before the storm, he revels in the silence, indulges in it—although he knows it is deceptive, naught but an illusion: there is no peace in the quiet. Only…anticipation.

He waits for the moment quietness will end, tension will be released into battle's rush, conscious thought will be replaced by instinct, experience, training. Soon, he knows, soon.

And then soon has come. A shout from the east of "They are coming!", the air fills with shouts and war cries and howls, and then yrch and wolves round the mountain's shoulder and pour into the valley.

Legolas lifts his arm. "Wait. Be ready, but wait," he cautions, and only when the valley is crowded with overeager, disorganised goblins does he let his hand fall. "Release!"

Volley after volley of arrows swishes through the air, each and every one finding a target. The yrch reel under the onslaught and search for cover in the waste land, but find none. Their anguished cries re-echo from the confining embrace of the mountain and grow louder, more frantic as spearmen charge down from the slopes towards them. Soon, black blood stains the ground, saturates the soil, oils the rocks.

Cries of "Moria!" and "Dain, Dain!" sound from the eastern spur as the dwarves plunge into the battle swinging heavy pickaxes, and with them the men of Laketown, who wield long swords.

Legolas sends his last arrow flying, and as he sees that all their quivers have been emptied, he orders his men to charge. Unsheathing his sword as he leaps down the rocks, he remembers the pledge to his father, and falls back from the front line into the second rank—but it is the last conscious decision that makes it through the rush of battle.

Easily he glides into his usual combat routine, following the neat pattern of strike, leap, parry. Even though this battle is nothing like the skirmishes Legolas has experienced as a commander of the border guards, the inconceivable mass of enemies and the vast expanse of the battlefield do not change the way he has to conduct himself, for the sheer number of fighters makes the ground cramped, and all combat is confined to a space almost as narrow as if it took place in the forest. Unlike the fights he knows from forest patrols, this one does not seem to ever end, though: every orch he slays is soon replaced by two others, or three, or four, and the circle of strike, leap, parry; strike, leap, parry repeats itself time and again.

He loses track of how many yrch he has slain; Tauriel will laugh at him when they compare their tallies after the fight, as is their wont. It will be worth it to see her laugh again, flashes through Legolas mind, and he allows himself to be distracted for a short moment to glance around and see if he can find her auburn hair flashing somewhere.

He cannot.

Strike, leap, parry. He cannot. Strike, leap, parry. He briefly considers the possibility that Tauriel might fall, but…that cannot be. She is a skilled warrior, and she is his sister in all but the name, and he will not let that happen. He only has to find—

A scimitar catches him at his right side, slices through his leather armour and nicks his skin. The pain is stinging but not crippling, so he knows it is only a minor wound. He twists, brings his sword down on the goblin's arm and then up in a round swing that neatly divides the orch's head from his body.

Focus, he scolds himself. Strike, leap, parry. He has to—strike—stop distracting—leap—himself with—parry—this folly—and there she is. Tauriel. Fighting as fiercely as ever close to his left, her dance not unlike Legolas's. Strike, leap, parry. All will be well.

Strike, leap, parry.

What at first looks like a certain victory turns into a desperate fight for pure survival when more yrch swarm into the valley, goblins of huge size, and with them a host of wargs; and suddenly Legolas is faced with the orch leader he has fought in Laketown, Bolg, as Mithrandir has identified him. Legolas's dance of strike, leap, parry loses rhythm; this is another kind of opponent, one who compensates his lack of agility with sheer strength. Legolas finds himself almost incapacitated by the numbing impact of a mighty blow from Bolg's gigantic club to his arm. He knows his sword is lost forever the moment it slips out of his unfeeling fingers. There is no time to recover it, and soon it will be stamped into the blood-softened soil, never to be found again.

Legolas reaches back to his quiver with his good hand and draws one of his long knives. In close combat it might even be of better use than his sword; he will only need to slash out before Bolg gets a chance to wrestle him and restrict his movements. He whirls, brings his foot up, slams it into Bolg's chest. The giant reels back; Legolas pursues, his knife high, ready to strike down—but then Bolg blocks the blade with his club, twists it out of the way, and as this opens Legolas's defence, he grabs out to catch the quiver strap. With a sharp pull the massive orch folds him like a rag doll into a close, constricting hold.

There is no leverage on the barren ground, nothing Legolas can use to break out of the tight clutch. He desperately strains against the hold, rocks back and forth, tries to work his arms free—but his sword arm is still not fully functioning, and his left one alone no match for Bolg's superior strength.

"Like a little fly," the orch-leader whispers in his ear, almost tenderly. "I will crush you now, elfling."

The pressure increases; pain spreads through his chest, breathing becomes a task almost too laborious to be worth the effort, the noise of battle mutes to a distant hum, the world fades from his sight…

…and comes back with a blinding light, a cacophony of sound, freedom of limbs, and air—air, air, air! Reeking, foul, thick with the vapour of sweat and blood and fear, but air, and plenty of it. Staggering, he fills his lungs with a few heaving breaths, and brings his knife up again, briefly wondering how he managed to keep hold on it; but Bolg is not where he expects him to be.

The goblin lord is far out of reach already, hurrying towards the mountain, and Legolas immediately sees why: the dwarves have finally left their fortress high up the mountain's ridge, the wall they constructed is crashing down into the valley like an avalanche, and Thorin Oakenshield, in full armour, wielding his axe with mighty strokes, leads his companions down to join the fray.

"To me!" he cries. "To me, elves and men! To me, oh my kinsfolk!"

Legolas sees dwarves and men streaming towards him, he sees a flash of red moving with them, and he shouts, "Tauriel! No!"

She looks back, briefly, but her face is blank, she shows no sign of recognition; then she hastens on towards the mountain, towards the dwarves—towards the dwarf.

But the battle continues in the valley, too, and Legolas is assaulted from front and back, from left and right, and he dances again, twists and whirls, slashes and strikes.

Strike, leap, parry; strike, leap, parry.

It is not enough. They are losing, he realises. Wargs and yrch still outnumber them by far, and even though many lie slain on the blood-soiled ground, ever more seem to be streaming into the valley from the north of the mountain.

Among the fallen Legolas sees many a corpse of elves and men. He sees familiar faces, comrades of many years, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, sees what should not be. Dagorlad.

No, he shall not think of that, he shall not—

Strike, leap, parry, that is it. He shall not—strike, leap, parry—worry—strike, leap, parry…

But he does.

With one sweeping blow he disposes of three attackers at once and uses the split second that it wins him to look for his father, who, no doubt, has left the side lines long ago to fight beside his warriors. He spots the magnificent form of the Woodland King near the foot of the mountain, slowly advancing up the slope where Thorin and his dwarves are defending themselves vigorously. A ring of elves shelters the king from side attacks as he slashes his long sword through the horde of goblins, cutting them down by the dozens; and this is not his adar—it is an intimidating king of ancient times, an avenging force of nature.

Higher up, amongst the dwarves, Legolas can see Tauriel, her fluid whirling in sharp contrast to the powerful but broad movements of the naugrim. The dwarf lord's flanks are exposed, his men are even more outnumbered than the forces in the valley, the circle of enemies closes around them. They need help.

He tries to fight his way closer to his father, closer to Tauriel and the dwarves; but in the thick of battle it is nigh on impossible to maintain an intended path, and Legolas drifts hither and yon with the waves of the conflict. All he can do is strike, leap, and parry, and deflect as many yrch as possible from attacking the warriors defending the lords of elves and dwarves.

He hears a shout of "The eagles, the eagles come!" Suddenly the battle slows down, and in the general disorientation appears room and opportunity to sprint, almost without hindrance, to where the dwarves from the mountain have been surrounded.

And there is Bolg again, and a half a dozen of goblins almost his size with spears and scimitars—his personal guard, Legolas assumes—advancing on Thorin Oakenshield. A dwarf throws himself between the yrch and his lord—Legolas recognises him as the one Tauriel has healed, Kili; a second follows. And Tauriel, who seems glued to Kili's side.

In comparison to the towering goblins they appear almost childlike, tiny and vulnerable; but they stand firm, axes and sword poised, chins defiantly raised.

A guttural growl comes from Bolg; he swishes his club as if to shoo off annoying insects as he closes in on Thorin's last line of defence, and his bodyguards follow his example. Like battering rams they are, with their scimitars raised and their spears ready to jab; and Legolas can see that Tauriel and her companions stand no chance.

He spots a small opening in the wall of goblins, a narrow opportunity to reach his friend and mayhap make a difference, and he leaps—

But it is too late. The gap closes before he gets through; he collides heavily with one of the goblin backs. And although he manages to dispose of this one attacker with a quick cross thrust of his knives, the remaining goblins charge, their attack still in surprisingly harmonised unison. Kili goes down first, in a splatter of blood, then the other dwarf, who, trying to shelter Thorin with his body, is pinned to the ground by a lance; and at the last the dwarf lord falls with a spear in his side.

Tauriel twists in time to avoid a deadly strike, losing her sword in the process. Long knife unsheathed, she launches herself towards Kili as he struggles to get up, trying to shield him from further onslaught, heedless of the fact that her fixation to the ground makes her even more vulnerable, her weapon even less potent—as the knife's advantage can only be exploited in movement.

Legolas strikes out at everything that moves, every orch that stands in his way, desperately trying to break through to where Tauriel lies across the dwarf, when time suddenly seems to slow to a crawl as he sees a scimitar descending on his little sister. But he is close to her, and he is swift-footed and nimble, even his damaged arm is functioning again; and he can reach her in time to block the blow, he knows he can do it. He is almost there, his arm is already stretched out towards the falling scimitar, his body almost between the orch and Tauriel, when suddenly his back erupts in pain, piercing, crippling agony, his vision is washed in red, and he cannot move, cannot go further…or even remain upright…he falls…falls…falls…

Is the ground truly so far away?

He falls, and as he goes down he sees the scimitar strike home and Tauriel collapse. He tries to push himself up, but his arms cannot support his weight, they slip on the blood-soaked soil; and the feeble movement sends hot daggers into his back. All he can do is roll on to his side so his face is no longer pressed into the dirt, and he can see, though his vision is blurred and unsteady. He makes out a huge bear-shaped form—Beorn, that must be Beorn the shape shifter—that appears out of nowhere, picks up Thorin's battered body and carries him away, Legolas wants to shout out to him to come back and rescue Tauriel from the carnage, and mayhap her dwarf, too, but he cannot find breath enough for even a whisper. And deep inside he begins to realise that Tauriel and Kili are beyond saving already.

That he has failed her.

Darkness approaches him, dulls the weariness in his bones and the searing pain in his back, and he almost welcomes it.

Almost.

But the battle is still not over, and he is a warrior—he surely can continue to perform his duty. If he just can get up and—but he cannot. As he rolls to his stomach and tries to push himself up another wave of agony washes over him, he feels something break and gape, and his arms crumble under him. He finds himself flat again, unable to move, unable to focus on anything but the pain.

And so he finally gives in to the alluring pull of oblivion.

When he comes to himself again, it appears that the battle has moved. The absence of the sound of combat is what strikes him the most; all is quiet around him, and only from afar can he perceive faint war calls and muffled cries of pain. The close vicinity is thick with the silence of the dead. He takes a brief inventory of his hurts, which seem considerable but not incapacitating anymore. He knows not how long he has lain insensible; it certainly cannot have been long—but long enough, obviously, for his body to start healing itself already.

He tries wiggling fingers and toes, carefully moving arms and legs, and as he learns he can make his limbs work without being punished by spikes of pain, he slowly pulls himself up. It is arduous work, but possible. A staggering step takes him to his fallen knives that miraculously have not been trampled too deeply into the muck; he bends down to reclaim them—and the pain that motion unleashes in his back nearly discourages him from straightening up again. He breathes through it, shakes his head to clear it from the fogginess, then lets his gaze sweep over the plain.

Far off, smaller skirmishes are still fought, but on the rest of the battlefield men and elves are wandering about, following meandering paths…almost as if drunk. They are searching for survivors, he realises.

Tauriel. He must retrieve her from here, must take her—

She lies, pale and still, next to Kili. Their hands are entwined, their faces surprisingly peaceful; the dwarf's eyes are closed, Tauriel's clouded and dull; they do not breathe—and Tauriel's song is silent.

He wants to kick the dwarf, punch him, mutilate his body; but nothing, not even that, would bring Legolas any kind of relief or would be a vengeance even remotely equalling what Kili has done to Tauriel—and to him.

There is no recompense for that.

He tries to pry Tauriel's hand from the dwarf's, but finds he cannot. This untoward…liaison has brought naught but misery to all of them, has disgraced Tauriel and will forever taint her memory, and yet…her face looks almost content, as if she knew that she did not belong on Arda anymore, as if she embraced her parting from it. She and Kili will meet in the Halls of Waiting and be beyond caring about the ills of their former lives. And mayhap, for a short time, they will be able to stay together before Mandos will separate them forever.

He leaves their hands as they are. It is not for him to break their connection. He will not disregard his sister's last wish.

As he will not disregard his father's wish. You will act as a true leader and see to it that you can lead your troops till the very end of this battle.

He has lost track of his troops long ago, but in hand-to-hand fighting that seemed unavoidable. Now that the close combat is over, he must reorganise them, must pass new orders, must lead them through the aftermaths.

But first he needs to find his father. Needs to make certain…

Getting up from his crouched position proves to be as painful as before; his head swims, his legs wobble, he stumbles groggily and might have fallen if not for the strong hands suddenly gripping his elbow, the small of his back.

"My Prince," says a steady voice. "I am glad I find you alive. I shall bring you back to the camp now."

It is a soldier of the king's personal guard. Even though he looks calm and collected, he exudes a certain air of urgency, and he gazes into Legolas's eyes imploringly.

That is no reason to meekly comply, of course. "No, I cannot…I must…the battle…"

"The battle is over, my Lord. Beorn appeared and joined our ranks; he killed the goblins' commander. The goblins are fleeing."

"We cannot allow them to run freely. I must—"

"They are pursued. All warriors still fit for it are hunting them down. Others are searching the battlefield for survivors."

"I need to—"

"You need to follow me to the healers' tent," the guard says with a voice as patient as if talking to a child. "The wounded are to be gathered there."

"But I am not in need of healing. I am well." He sees the guard's lip curl and offers a small smile of his own. "Almost."

A sigh. "My Lord." The guard releases his hold on Legolas's back, then shows him his hand. "This is not my blood," he says.

It is a valid point, even Legolas sees that. But still…he has an obligation, he needs to see to his people, needs to be a leader, a prince, a—but then he is presented with what he cannot disobey.

"It is the king's order. Come now."

And he comes, lets himself be led from the mountain, down to the camp and into a healers' tent.

He is seated on a cot, and someone brings him a bowl of fresh water and a clean cloth. He stares at the items, at a loss for what to do with them, until a healer gently takes them from his hands again. He feels someone carefully pulling at his armour, probing at his back but stopping immediately when he flinches from the fresh pain the soft touch causes.

Then a goblet is pushed into his hand. "There, now," he hears. "Drink that. It will help you through this."

"What is it?"

"Something to ease the pain."

He tries to hand the goblet back. "I do not need it. I can deal with the pain," he says.

"Yes, I know," the healer smiles. "But I cannot. Drink it."

Suddenly too tired not to comply, he downs the goblet with one swallow—and realises the tell-tale flavour too late; the pain relief is laced with a sleeping draught. He is out almost immediately.

He does not come fully awake again until two days later, well rested and almost pain-free. A healer catches him before he can sneak out of the tent, clucks around him, insists on renewing his bandages, and offers him another healing draught, which Legolas rejects. He has slept enough.

A messenger from the king approaches him, and he learns that the elven host will mourn their fallen and then march home the coming day. He learns that his father has been a frequent visitor in the healers' tent, but only to sit at Legolas's bedside, for the king has come through the battle with only minor injuries.

He learns that Bilbo has reappeared (he did not even know that the Hobbit has been missing, but he does not tell that to the runner). He learns that Thorin asked Bilbo for forgiveness, has made peace with men and elves, too; that the dwarves have granted Bard the fourteenth share of the dragon's hoard, as Thorin promised; that from his share the bowman presented to Thranduil the emeralds of Girion ("gems the colour of the queen's eyes," says the messenger, and Legolas understands why his father would not reject them); and that even Bilbo received a part, albeit a small one, for he did ask for such only.

He learns that Thorin finally succumbed to his numerous wounds the day before, and that the elven king expects his son, properly attired, shortly to be present at the dwarf lord's funeral.

The place the dwarves have chosen to lay their lord to rest lies deep beneath the mountain, making Thorin forever what he so desperately desired to become: the King under the Mountain.

The ceremony is held with much dignity. The dwarves are proud folk, and they honour their lord with stately words and solemn gestures. Bard places the Arkenstone on Thorin's breast, voicing the hope that the jewel will bring good fortune to all folk that will dwell in Erebor here after.

The elven king stands tall in front of the tomb, inclines his head just so—it is a minute movement, but many a gasp from the naugrim tells Legolas it is observed and gratefully received—and then lays Orcrist, the mighty sword, upon the stone coffin. "It shall remain with the one who rightfully owns it," he says, and that evokes another murmur of approval among the dwarves.

Thranduil steps back, but shakes his head as his son gestures subtly towards the cave's exit.

Legolas briefly closes his eyes. He wants this over and done with. He wants to be out of the confining, oppressive stone tomb. He wants to return home, wants to look after his naneth. The golden green thread that connects them still feels compromised, damaged, not right. He is no fool: even though both the king and queen have not spoken of it, he knows that his mother's long ride into the woods and beyond to find and rescue him has weakened her greatly.

He wants to blame the dwarf for it, or Tauriel, or even Mithrandir for leading the dwarves into the realm in the first place, but he cannot. He is to blame, he alone. If he had not lost his composure over a few drops of blood, he might have realised how featherbrained pursuing a herd of yrch was and refrained from it, and then his mother would not have left her sanctuary.

He knows she would scold him for those thoughts. Would tell him it was her choice to go after him. Would act exasperated and imperious, and ask him what makes him even consider that she was not the autocrat of her decisions.

Still, he cannot help feeling guilty.

He glances at his father, searching for a sign as to how much longer they are expected to stay at Thorin's tomb. He expects impatience and finds—grief.

It is not grief for the slain king, of that he is certain. King Thranduil does not grieve for the dwarf. There is respect, certainly, from one king to another; recognition of Thorin's strength as a warlord, approval of his effort in making amends with Bilbo, with everyone including the king himself. Enough of it even to restore Orcrist to him, but grief? No, most certainly not. And even if the king felt grief—he would not show it.

But there is one grief the king cannot hide, could never hide, only one grief…only one…

Legolas closes his eyes. So he feels it, too. Feels that something terrible happens to their beloved queen while they attend this memorial for a mere stranger.

The bond whimpers. Thread by thread it is severed—no, not severed. It is as if every fibre is withering away, charring. Something is weakening, is disintegrating the bond. Something.

Something.

His naneth's light dims, her song fades away; and she is alone. Their bond is almost gone, almost…

He desperately wishes to reach for his ada's hand. He cannot do that, of course he cannot. King Thranduil will never allow such a display of weakness, of need, of…unseemly…

Before he can finish the thought he finds himself tightly locked to his father's chest.

"I have sent the birds," adar says. "She will have heard that you are well."

"That we are." It is no more than a breath on the neck into which a firm hand presses his face.

"We."

ooOoo

Uncomfortable, Galion shifts from one foot to the other. He bows low, not only from propriety, but also because he wants to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. He knows he should not enter this most private of all rooms, but he also knows that the news he bears is greatly desired and must be delivered instantly. In the dim light of only a few candles the queen in her bed looks fragile and pale almost to translucence, as if made of threads of gossamer or thin glass—it is painfully obvious that she cannot get up and receive valets in the anteroom.

"My Lady," Galion addresses her carefully. "I bring good tidings."

She lifts tired eyelids, revealing opaque green eyes and smiles. "Good tidings. How fortunate I am."

"The battle is over. We were victorious."

"That is good news, indeed!" And her face lights up for a moment—then her joyous features crumble and her eyes glance around the room before they fix on his and hold his gaze, almost beseechingly. "My child?" she asks so softly he can hardly hear it. "My king?"

"They live, my Lady."

"Are they…well?"

He hesitates, albeit only for a moment. He will not lie—and there is no reason for it anyway. "They are not entirely unscathed, but they will be well."

Eryniel will know it must be good enough; will realise that there are many families that will not receive news as good as this. She has witnessed the aftermath of Dagorlad, tended to many a wounded and grief stricken elf, joined with her husband, as newly crowned king and queen, to rebuild their realm. She knows that even glad news often comes with a stain on them.

She nods; her smile brings a ray of starlight into the dim chamber, and her whisper an inkling of rippling spring water. "Thank you, dearest Galion. Now my mind is eased."

He hears the unspoken dismissal and bows. Before he turns to leave the room he sees the queen sink back into her pillows and hears her whisper, "All is well, all is well. I shall rest now."

Then she closes her eyes and exhales audibly and long, and the twilight of the room brightens briefly before the candles flicker once more, and then perish.

ooOoo

Deep within the Lonely Mountain, as he feels the extinction of the last golden green thread, Legolas buries his head into his father's shoulder, and under his son's hot breath, the King of the Woodland trembles.

ooOoo

Sindarin, just in case...
orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin
naneth/ nana = mother/mama
adar/ada = father/papa
iôn-nín = my son
naug/ pl. naugrim = dwarf
fëa = soul, spirit