Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note:

This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)

ActII

Rise to War

Chapter 96: The Return to Edoras

Edoras, March 6th 3019

The battlefield was a sea of gray and red, strewn with the lifeless bodies of orcs and Uruk-hai. The acrid smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. The dawn's pale light filtered through the thinning clouds, casting a cold glow over the ruins of Helm's Deep. Cracks marred the once-imposing walls of the fortress, now reduced to rubble in many places, while stray arrows and shattered swords littered the ground like abandoned relics of the night's chaos.

Legolas stood tall amidst the wreckage, his hair a cascade of pale gold-silver that caught the faint morning light. His Elven armor, though crafted to perfection, bore signs of the hard-fought battle—dirt streaked its polished surface, and faint dents marked where blows had narrowly missed vital points. His bow, a weapon of unmatched craftsmanship, rested lightly in his grasp, the string taut as though ready for one last shot. His face, normally serene and noble, carried the faintest trace of exhaustion, but his keen eyes were as sharp as ever.

Not far from him, Gimli sat slumped on a pile of debris, his heavy dwarven armor dented and smeared with grime. His red beard, thick and braided, was tangled from the skirmish, and his broad face gleamed with sweat. Yet, despite his weariness, there was a spark of satisfaction in his eyes as he leaned on his axe—a weapon as unyielding as its master, now bloodied and embedded with the remnants of his foes.

Legolas approached him, his stride elegant and silent even on the uneven ground. He looked down at Gimli, a flicker of amusement dancing in his gaze.

"Final count... forty-two," Legolas announced, his voice calm yet carrying a hint of playful pride. He raised an elegant eyebrow as if daring the dwarf to match his tally.

Gimli, ever quick to respond, lifted his axe and smirked. "Forty-two?" he echoed, his voice gruff yet tinged with humor. "Whoa. That's not bad... for a pointy-eared Elvish princeling." He leaned back, feigning nonchalance, though the competitive glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

Legolas didn't flinch at the jab. Instead, he tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "I myself," he said, deliberately pausing as he straightened his posture, "am sitting pretty on forty-three."

Gimli froze for a moment, his expression twisting into incredulity. He leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as he processed the claim. "Forty-three?" he repeated, his tone skeptical.

Legolas inclined his head ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to betray his satisfaction.

The dwarf grunted and shook his head, muttering something unintelligible as he scanned the nearest body. Suddenly, he pointed a finger at a fallen Uruk-hai lying just a few feet away. The creature's black armor glinted dully in the light, and its grotesque face was twisted in its final grimace of death. "He was already dead!" Gimli declared, jabbing his finger for emphasis.

The elf's eyes narrowed slightly, his calm expression unwavering. "He was twitching," Legolas countered smoothly, as though the observation were irrefutable fact.

Gimli's eyes widened in outrage. "He was twitching because he's got my axe embedded in his nervous system!" he bellowed, gesturing animatedly with his hands. His voice echoed across the broken field, drawing the attention of a few nearby soldiers who smiled faintly at the familiar bickering.

Legolas merely raised an elegant eyebrow at the outburst, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Gimli's fiery temper. For a brief moment, the two locked eyes in an unspoken challenge, the remnants of their contest still hanging in the air.

Despite the lingering tension, a shared respect flickered between them. They had survived another night of bloodshed, and their camaraderie, though forged in rivalry, was stronger than ever. Gimli huffed and leaned back against the rubble, muttering something about "Elves and their tricks," while Legolas turned his gaze to the horizon, his sharp eyes scanning for any lingering threats.

The moment of levity hung in the air, a rare reprieve amidst the horrors of war. The battlefield around them remained grim, a stark reminder of the cost of their victory. But in their banter, there was a glimmer of hope—a reminder that even in the darkest times, bonds of friendship could endure.

Xena stood atop the battlements, her silhouette stark against the lightening sky. Her once-polished armor was scratched and spattered with the gore of battle, testament to her unyielding spirit and the chaos she had faced. The chakram at her side, its edge dulled from constant use, hung loosely against her thigh. Her dark hair, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt, framed her sharp features, and her blue eyes burned with a quiet intensity.

Below her, Legolas leapt gracefully from the wall, his light-footed movements betraying none of the exhaustion that must have weighed on his body. His golden-silver hair, tousled and matted with dirt and blood, caught the faint morning light. His silver Elven armor bore marks of the desperate battle—a slash across the shoulder, a smear of blackened blood along his breastplate—but his posture remained regal, unbowed. He moved toward Gimli, who sat upon a shattered block of stone amidst the carnage, his axe resting on his lap.

Despite her steady gaze, Xena felt a twinge of discomfort as she watched Legolas. He seemed to avoid her, his focus locked on the dwarf as if the act of ignoring her was a shield against the thoughts that clearly troubled him. His movements were sharp, purposeful, but she knew him well enough to see the unease in the way he avoided looking in her direction.

The tension between them lingered like a shadow. The adrenaline of the battle had dulled the edge of their earlier argument, but it remained fresh in both their minds. Xena could still feel the faint heat of her lips against his—an impulsive gesture meant to break through his stubborn guilt, to make him see what he refused to confront. And yet, it had driven them further apart, for now at least.

She knew Legolas was struggling to process her words, but more than that, she could see the conflict brewing within him. His pride was wounded not by the kiss, but by her choices. She had left him. She had ridden into the unknown, to Harad, to uncover secrets he could not bear to ask for. She had sought answers to the curse that plagued him, and in doing so, she had risked herself—her body, her life—for his sake.

And now here she was, standing again in his presence, trying to find the words to bridge the chasm between them.

Legolas stood still as a statue after exchanging a few sharp words with Gimli. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, the sun's first light catching the edges of his cheekbones and illuminating the storm of emotions hidden behind his usually unreadable expression. When their eyes met across the distance, something unspoken passed between them—an ache, a yearning, and an anger neither wanted to name. But just as quickly, they both turned away, their gazes falling to the bloodied earth.

The scene around them was grim. The bodies of orcs and Uruk-hai lay in heaps, their blackened armor blending with the ashen ground. The surviving soldiers moved through the carnage, dragging their wounded comrades to safety, but the weight of the night's losses was clear on their faces.

Xena took a deep breath and stepped down from the battlements, her boots crunching against loose rubble. Her body ached, her muscles protesting every movement, but she forced herself to move toward where Legolas and Gimli stood. The elf was silent now, his face turned toward the mountains, but his posture was tense, his hands flexing against the bow that rested in his grasp. The dwarf, meanwhile, busied himself cleaning his axe, muttering curses under his breath about the mess of orc blood.

As Xena approached, she felt a shift in their awareness. Legolas's keen ears would have picked up the faint rustle of her movements long before she was close, but he made no indication of acknowledgment. Gimli, on the other hand, looked up and gave a small grunt of recognition.

"Well," Gimli said, his voice gruff but tinged with humor. "If it isn't the warrior princess herself. Come to claim your share of the glory, have you?"

Xena smirked faintly, but the exhaustion in her eyes was evident. "Something like that," she replied, her tone light despite the heaviness in her heart.

Gimli leaned back against the stone and wiped his axe clean with a tattered piece of cloth. "You've missed the count, lass. Legolas here claims he's on forty-three."

Xena arched an eyebrow, glancing at Legolas, who still refused to meet her gaze. "Forty-three, huh?" she said, crossing her arms. "That's not bad."

Gimli snorted. "Not bad? I'm at forty-two myself, and he's trying to claim victory with that flimsy excuse for a weapon." He gestured toward Legolas's bow with mock disdain.

Finally, the elf turned his head, his expression calm but his voice edged with dry humor. "Flimsy, you say? Perhaps you'd like to see how effective it is at close range."

Gimli waved him off with a laugh. "Ah, save your breath, elf. We both know you're embellishing. That last one was twitching because he had my axe buried in his back."

Legolas's lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "He was twitching because he was still alive," he said smoothly. "It's not my fault your aim lacks precision."

The dwarf growled, though his tone was more playful than angry. "Precision, my foot! You take the easy ones from fifty paces while I'm down here swinging for my life."

Xena chuckled softly, letting their banter ease the tension in the air. "You're both amateurs," she said, her voice cutting through their argument. "I stopped counting after fifty."

Both men turned to look at her, their expressions a mix of surprise and amusement. "Fifty?" Gimli sputtered. "You expect us to believe that?"

Xena shrugged, her lips curving into a sly grin. "Believe what you want. But while you two were busy comparing numbers, I was out there taking care of the ones you missed."

Legolas tilted his head, his gaze finally meeting hers. For a moment, he seemed ready to challenge her claim, but instead, he simply smiled—a faint, almost reluctant gesture that softened the edges of his pride. "Perhaps next time," he said, his voice quiet but warm, "you'll give us a chance to catch up."

Xena's grin widened, though the weight of their earlier tension still lingered. "I'll consider it," she replied, before turning to survey the battlefield once more.

The banter between them was light, but beneath the surface, the unresolved emotions simmered. They had survived another battle, but the war within each of them was far from over.

The aftermath of battle was grim, yet necessary. The survivors of Helm's Deep worked in solemn unison, gathering the fallen. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of burned wood and sweat. The bodies of their own—brave men of Rohan and their allies—were handled with the utmost care, their faces covered with torn cloaks or shreds of cloth before being laid gently in rows. Silent prayers were whispered, and some of the women who had sheltered in the caves emerged to help, their faces pale but resolute.

Xena moved among the soldiers, her steps firm despite the fatigue in her body. Her armor still bore the scars of the night's carnage, and her hands were smudged with dirt and blood, but she pressed on. She lifted bodies alongside the others, her presence a quiet source of strength to those around her.

The Uruk-hai were piled separately, their grotesque forms a stark contrast to the solemn honor given to the Rohirrim. Their black armor glinted dully in the morning light, and their twisted faces seemed to snarl even in death. A pyre was constructed in the center of the battlefield, a massive structure of broken wood and debris. The soldiers worked quickly, heaving the heavy bodies onto the pile, their faces set with grim determination.

"Burn them," Aragorn instructed, his voice carrying over the low murmur of the crowd. "Leave no trace for the forest to claim. The land has suffered enough."

Legolas stood nearby, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon where the edge of Fangorn Forest loomed. "The Ents have dealt with the others," he said softly, speaking to Aragorn but loud enough for those nearby to hear. "The forest will reclaim its peace. But this—" he gestured to the pyre— "this evil must be purged by fire."

Gimli grunted in agreement, tossing another corpse onto the pile. "Aye, let's make quick work of it. The stench is bad enough without letting it linger."

Xena's eyes flickered toward the horizon, where smoke from the Ents' vengeance still curled into the sky. She nodded at Aragorn's command, stepping forward to help ignite the pyre. As the first flames caught, a hush fell over the gathered soldiers, their eyes reflecting the firelight as they watched the destruction of their enemies.

Later that day, as preparations were being made for departure, Xena sought out Haldir. She found him sitting on a low stone wall near the western edge of the fortress, his gold hair catching the sunlight. His once-pristine armor was battered, and his arm was wrapped tightly in a sling. Despite his injuries, he carried himself with the same regal grace, his piercing gaze focused on the horizon.

"Haldir," Xena called softly, approaching him.

He turned his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Lady Xena," he replied, his voice smooth despite the weariness in his tone. "You honor me with your presence."

Xena returned the smile, her hands resting lightly on her hips. "It's me who should be thanking you. You saved my life back there."

Haldir inclined his head, his expression growing serious. "No less than any of us would have done in such a moment."

Xena shook her head, her voice low but firm. "Still, you didn't have to. You risked yourself, and you were injured because of it."

Haldir studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes seeming to peer into her very soul. "It is the way of battle," he said finally. "And you fought with a courage that would rival the greatest warriors of my kin."

Xena chuckled softly, though her gaze softened. "That's high praise coming from an elf."

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the weight of the battle settling between them. Then Haldir spoke again, his tone quieter. "Rumil told me of the wound you received before—by the Morgul blade. Does it still trouble you?"

Xena's smile faded, and she glanced down at her hands. "Sometimes," she admitted honestly. "It was a deep wound, and I carried it too long before it was healed. There are moments when it aches… when I feel the shadow of it, even though the injury is gone."

Haldir nodded, his expression unreadable. "The poison of such a weapon does not fade easily, even for those as strong as you. But you are still standing, still fighting. That is what matters."

She met his gaze, the sincerity in his words striking a chord within her. "And you?" she asked. "Will you be all right?"

Haldir's faint smile returned, though there was a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "I will endure. We have lost many of our kin this day, but their sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Xena reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle but firm. "Take care, Haldir."

He inclined his head, and as she stepped back, he rose, his movements slow but steady. "May the Valar watch over you in the coming battles," he said.

Theoden stood at the gates of Helm's Deep, his armor gleaming despite the dents and scratches it bore. His face was lined with exhaustion, but there was a quiet pride in his bearing. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf gathered around him, their mounts already prepared for the journey ahead. Xena stood to the side, watching as the remnants of the Rohirrim prepared to return to Edoras.

"Thank you, Haldir," Theoden said, his voice filled with gratitude. "Your aid came at great cost, and I will not forget the sacrifice of your kin."

Haldir inclined his head solemnly. "The bonds between our peoples are stronger for it. May they endure in the days to come."

Aragorn clasped Haldir's uninjured shoulder, his eyes filled with respect. "You have my thanks as well, mellon nîn. Your courage will not be forgotten."

As the elves began to gather their remaining forces to return to Lothlórien, Xena approached her companions. Theoden mounted his horse with a grace belying his age, his expression determined. Gandalf, already astride Shadowfax, glanced toward the horizon with a look of purpose.

"We ride for Isengard," he said, his voice cutting through the chatter. "There is work yet to be done."

Legolas swung up onto his horse, his movements as fluid as ever. Gimli grumbled as he climbed up behind him, muttering something about dwarves not being meant for riding. Xena mounted her own steed, her chakram glinting faintly in the sunlight as she adjusted her grip on the reins.

The group turned toward the path leading out of Helm's Deep, their purpose clear. Theoden and his remaining soldiers would return to Edoras, but Xena, Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli had a different destination. They rode in silence at first, the weight of their mission heavy upon them.

As they reached the outskirts of the battlefield, Gandalf spurred Shadowfax forward, his voice carrying back to the others. "To Isengard! Let us see what remains of Saruman's treachery."

With that, the company rode on, their silhouettes fading into the horizon as the echoes of the battle at Helm's Deep lingered behind them, their horses, valiant and steadfast, carried them with unyielding strength, as though they too understood the gravity of their riders' mission. The landscape stretched out before them—rolling plains and rocky outcrops, framed by the distant silhouette of the Misty Mountains.

At the head of the company rode Gandalf atop Shadowfax, the Lord of All Horses. The great steed's silver-white coat shimmered in the sunlight, and his movements were swift and fluid, almost as if he glided over the terrain. Shadowfax's intelligence was evident in the way he responded to Gandalf, his ears flicking back at every soft command. The wizard leaned forward slightly, his gray cloak billowing behind him as he led the way.

Beside him rode Aragorn, astride his faithful horse, Brego. The sturdy bay steed moved with practiced grace, his dark mane brushing against Aragorn's weathered hands as he guided him forward. Aragorn sat tall in the saddle, his piercing gaze scanning the horizon as though seeking signs of their next challenge.

Legolas rode slightly behind, his mount Arod—a light gray horse gifted by the Rohirrim. Arod had no saddle, and Legolas sat atop him with the effortless ease of an elf, his long golden hair flowing in the wind. Behind him, Gimli clung tightly to the elf's waist, muttering under his breath about the indignity of dwarves riding horses. Arod seemed unbothered by the extra weight, his stride steady as he carried both riders across the open fields.

Xena rode on Chubby. The mare's coat gleamed like burnished copper, and her movements were strong yet graceful, a perfect match for her rider. Xena's dark hair trailed behind her as she rode, her chakram glinting faintly in the sunlight. She gripped the reins with practiced ease, her sharp eyes scanning the terrain for any lingering threats. Though her body ached from the recent battle, her spirit was unbroken, her determination to see this journey through evident in the set of her jaw.

Eomer brought up the rear on Firefoot, his trusted gray stallion. The horse moved with power and precision, his hooves striking the ground with rhythmic certainty. Eomer rode with the confidence of a warrior, his keen gaze darting between the horizon and his companions.

King Théoden sat tall atop his steed, Snowmane, a horse as noble and proud as the king himself. Snowmane's coat was a pale gray, almost silver, glinting softly under the light of the sun. The great horse moved with a quiet dignity, its hooves striking the earth with a rhythm that spoke of strength and purpose.

The group rode in silence for much of the journey, the weight of their purpose hanging heavy in the air. They passed through valleys and crossed streams, their pace unrelenting as the shadow of Isengard loomed closer. The sight of the tower of Orthanc rising against the backdrop of the mountains sent a chill through them all, a stark reminder of the treachery they were riding to confront.

When they reached the outskirts of Isengard, the sight that greeted them was both awe-inspiring and devastating. The once-proud stronghold of Saruman was now a flooded ruin. The great ring of Isengard was submerged under water, its murky depths reflecting the sunlight in shimmering patterns. Towering above it all was Orthanc, black and unyielding, standing like a dark spike in the heart of the wreckage.

The company halted their horses at the edge of the destruction, their expressions ranging from shock to grim satisfaction. Smoke still rose from parts of the wreckage, and the remains of Saruman's war machines jutted out of the water like broken bones. Around them, the Ents moved with slow purpose, their ancient forms blending seamlessly with the twisted remains of the forest they had destroyed and reclaimed.

"It seems the Ents have completed their work," Gandalf said, his voice calm but tinged with a sense of finality. Shadowfax pawed the ground impatiently, eager to move forward.

The group dismounted, their boots sinking slightly into the damp ground as they surveyed the scene. Legolas's keen eyes scanned the waters, his elven senses attuned to the whispers of the forest. Gimli, standing beside him, looked up at the Ents with a mixture of awe and unease.

"This is a sight I never thought I'd see," Gimli muttered, resting a hand on the haft of his axe. "Trees marching to war and winning."

Xena moved closer to Aragorn, her gaze fixed on the distant figure of Treebeard, who stood near the base of Orthanc." Treebeard said.

The group made their way toward Orthanc, crossing the makeshift paths left by the flooding. Treebeard greeted them with a deep rumble, his ancient voice resonating like the creak of old wood. "Young master Gandalf, I'm glad you've come," he said, his eyes glowing "Wood and water, stock and stone I can master, but there's a Wizard to manage here, locked in his tower."

Gandalf nodded and led the way to the base of Orthanc, where the confrontation with Saruman played out. The wizard appeared atop the tower, his once-commanding presence diminished by his disheveled appearance and the venomous tone of his words. The exchange was tense, but ultimately, Saruman's hold was broken. Wormtongue's treachery sealed his fate, and the palantír fell from the tower into the waters below. Returning to Edoras

The journey back to Edoras was quieter, the weight of their encounter with Saruman still lingering over them. The plains of Rohan stretched wide around them, golden in the sunlight, but the beauty of the land could not entirely ease the heaviness in their hearts. The people of Rohan had won a great victory, but the cost had been high, and the shadow of Sauron still loomed to the east.

As they approached Edoras, the golden halls of Meduseld gleamed in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the scars of war. The people of Rohan emerged to greet them, their faces a mixture of relief and joy at the return of their king and his companions. Children ran alongside the horses, their laughter breaking through the somber mood, while the women and elders stood at the gates, their hands clasped in gratitude.

For the moment, the horses were led back to the stables, their riders carefully removing saddles and gear to allow the noble creatures to eat and rest after their long journey. The companions, weary from the trials of battle and travel, would do the same. They took the time to retreat to their quarters, to wash away the dirt and blood of war and don fresh attire befitting the solemnity of the evening ahead.

The evening would be dedicated to honoring the fallen and celebrating the resilience of those who had survived. For one fleeting day, or what little remained of it, they would set aside the weight of war, the sorrow of loss, and the looming shadow of darkness. It would be a moment to breathe, to reflect, and to find strength in the unity of their fellowship before the road called them onward once more.

((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Seven))

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