Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter XVII

Night had fallen quickly upon the land of Rohan, without the presence of stars or the soft radiance of the moon. Legolas glanced up at the sky, distress creasing the gentle brow of his noble face. How he longed to see the earth unveiled by moonlight and starlight from above, instead of the many torches below! The Elf kept his senses sentient, and they served him well. His keen eyes sighted a steady stream of fire below him – the only brightness in their shadowed world. Once in a while, a flare of fire erupted from below, and the Elf-prince grimaced. Nothing could be set afire that quickly, unless it was wood or straw.

Lines of flame traveled in a disciplined formation on the terrain below; Legolas strained his eyes and narrowed in on what he believed to be horses. From the ghastly crimson glow of those wielded torches, he thought he glimpsed another darker mass away on his left. The ones wielding fire had to be the forces of Isengard, for only foul creatures and beings would destroy tree and brush. The Elven prince narrowed his eyes. That would make the darker shapes on his far left the Men of the Mark, then. Mithrandir, Aragorn, and Gimli would be with them.

A battle was about to be joined.

As if sensing his thoughts, Gwaihir spoke. “My good Elf, that is Helm’s Deep that you see ahead of you. This is where your destiny awaits you.”

“A battleground where I shall soon fight myself,” said Legolas, holding on to the eagle’s talon. “For this is not only a battle against the minions of Saruman. I shall soon see if I could follow my purpose here, and cast aside the truths of the fallen Istari. That is a path that is still undecided.”

“Very well spoken, Legolas Greenleaf. Now look ahead and be wary, for you shall soon find yourself readying for the gear of war.” Gwaihir flapped his wings again, soaring higher towards the moonless sky. He released no cry, for it would be foolish for their enemies below to know of their whereabouts. Instead, the lord of Eagles flew upon the wind, gaining speed through his mighty wings that could blot out the stars if they shone.

Legolas looked ahead, noting his surroundings and that of Helm’s Deep. Though it was night, the Elf could see it from afar. A strong and mighty fortress rose out of a gorge in betwixt the mountains; its foundations being the hills below it. The gorge stabbed its crags towards the sky, becoming steep and narrow as it bent its faces northwards beneath the dominating shadows of the surrounding mountains. Stone jutted out like protruding faces barricading the fortress within. Legolas studied the stronghold as Gwaihir brought him ever closer; at the same time, he kept his eyes on the Men of the Mark below, whom now glanced up at him. Doubtlessly, he seemed a strange creature being borne by the wings of a great eagle.

Helm’s Deep towered tall in the gorge above the hills, its shadow blending into the very blackness of night. According to its construction, Legolas could make out stonework done by skilled hands. Thick and high walls rose from the ground up, at least eight feet thick by his calculations. The twenty feet high walls could be a deterrent against archers, though the foes of Isengard scaling ladders would not be out of the question. Raising his sight from the sturdy front presented, the Elf looked hard at the single tower that stood alone above the fortress. A decent watchtower, Legolas thought with the mind of a warrior and strategist. If there were enough men manning the front walls, including the reinforcing battlements, it would be difficult for any foe to surmount the crucial strategic site. It would prove hard, indeed, what not with the Men of the Mark, Aragorn, Gimli, and least of all, Mithrandir the Istari.

An Elf just arrived, wounded and indecisive might still provide some aid.

“I will now cry forth to alert your friends below, for the Ranger knows my voice and its signal. He is of Man, and therefore cannot see in this villainously dark night but Rangers have knowledge of friendly and fell beasts. He should be able to keep your allies from demanding my existence null.”

“Cry forth then, Gwaihir the Windlord, ruler of the eagles!”

Gwaihir released a ringing tone that permeated the sky and the earth, towards their fell foes and their trustworthy allies, against the flames of Isengard and for the swords of Rohan. His voice rang high above all, telling some of a newcomer’s arrival and of times of change to come.

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Aragorn saw King Théoden suddenly jerking his head upwards, followed by his men and Gimli as well. The Ranger listened closely, and soon heard the sweet but fierce cry of a sky-borne eagle. He recognized that voice and to whom it belonged. Gandalf had gone, explaining the need of attending to an errand unbeknownst to them but Aragorn did not need the Istari’s aged ears to know who had arrived. Gwaihir the Windlord now watched over them with commanding golden eyes.

But the Windlord would not come to battle unless the Lady Galadriel bid him to at all speed possible. Could it be that Legolas had returned? Gandalf did mention the Elf rejoining them for later fights, stressing the battle of Helm’s Deep as one that Legolas was destined to participate in. Legolas was formerly at Rivendell; if Gwaihir could take him there in less than a day’s flight, then this was plausible. The eagle would only need a few hours to deliver the young prince back to them, coming with the Lady’s welcome and tidings.

“Is that the eagle that we are hearing?” asked Gimli as he approached Aragorn, small amongst the tall men of Rohan. “Is it Gwaihir?”

“’Tis is, Gimli.” Turning to King Théoden and Éomer, Aragorn reined his horse closer to the two. “My lord and Éomer son of Éomund, tell your men to cast down all suspicion and fear at this cry in the dark. I know this voice, and it is of a friend and ally. His name is Gwaihir, lord of Eagles, and perhaps he brings help instead of a burden. This I hold to be true.”

“Do you vouch for his words, Gimli son of Gloin?” asked Théoden gently.

Gimli glanced up at Aragorn, and then back towards the elderly king. “I have traveled far with Aragorn, and I know him to be true and not a liar like Wormtongue. It may be that our friend, the Elf, has come to aid us with his blade and bow. If this is so, my lord, there is no cause for fear.”

“Very well then, Gimli son of Gloin. I will tell my men, and then we shall hasten within Helm’s Deep. The army of Isengard travels not far behind us.”

“Do so, my lord,” said Aragorn, “and may we soon stand ready for them.”

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“I believe Aragorn has told them, Gwaihir. I hear no din rising out of the gloom, from below or above. The sky is clear of all cruel creatures, save that the moon refuses to shine. Already we approach this mighty stronghold, Helm’s Deep. It looks sturdy and constructed well enough for a siege.”

“Legolas Greenleaf, you shall not witness a siege upon these stony walls, for seldom do Orcs tarry away their time,” replied the eagle lord, his deep voice rumbling out of that broad feathered breast. “Look down, young Elf! See the defenders riding into their fort! It is here where you shall join them!”

The Men of the Mark, dark shadows against an even blacker ground, rode up towards Helm’s Deep, going by way of a steep rampart. Their horses were trained and precise in their steps; never once did Legolas see those proud beasts buck and retreat simply because they were going into battle. It was as if the Riders of Rohan and their steeds were one. Legolas stared down at the thick wall where Gwaihir was now flying over.

“Are you going to drop me here?”

“Drop you? That is a strange question asked by an Elf!” Gwaihir said with mirth. “Nay, Legolas! I shall release you upon this wall, albeit I cannot land myself. That tower is already an impediment for my great berth!”

“Fly down slowly then, my friend. I do not wish to present myself forth with broken bones, unable to lend aid! It will be a dreary day when it would be told across hearth fires that Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil the king of Northern Mirkwood, fell upon the stones of a stronghold and thereby was deprived of his own strength!”

Gwaihir chuckled. “You find amusement during times of war, young Elf.”

“Nay! ‘Tis only a mere distraction.”

The lord of Eagles opened wide his wings in another lift upon the wind, and Legolas saw the wall quickly rising to meet him. Gwaihir flew around Helm’s Deep, as if uncertain of where to land. Suddenly though, Legolas spotted Aragorn and Gimli amongst the other soldiers, and he pointed towards them. “I see my friends, Gwaihir! There, at that section of the wall!” With his keen sight, Legolas could make out the mail-clad, stout, and short form of Gimli; standing next to a regal figure, Aragorn looked kingly and commanding. The sight of his two friends ran verve through his mind, and Legolas could not wait to meet them.

But where was Mithrandir?

“It is time, Legolas Greenleaf. May fate be with you tonight.”

“And may she never betray me,” finished the Elf.

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The soaring form of the lord of Eagles swiftly descended towards them. The Men of the Mark, busily preparing themselves for battle, glanced upwards. However, only Aragorn could tell that Gwaihir was descending. What he did not know was where Gwaihir intended to land, for the berth of the Deeping Wall was not large enough to accommodate a full-grown eagle. So he waited, while all around him, Éomer and his people took their posts and unsheathed their swords or nocked their bows. The din of shouted commands and the rallying of the soldiers surrounded him.

“My friend, release me here.” Straining his eyes and stepping forward until he could see the speaker, Aragorn glimpsed a slender form kneeling upon the hard stone. There was a quiver strapped over his back, and a bow in his hand. It was no other than their companion, the Elf from Mirkwood.

Legolas had come.

The Elf raised himself to his full height, and offered forth his hand to the eagle. “Thank you, Gwaihir, lord of Eagles. May you go in peace, and carry forth the blessings of the youngest member of Thranduil’s family. Fly swiftly, great lord.”

“You speak ever graciously, Legolas Greenleaf. It is here where we shall part.”

“Alas, yes!” Legolas lowered his hand. “Fly now, Gwaihir, and give the Lady Galadriel my thanks.”

“Surely,” said Gwaihir, raising himself into the air. Aragorn now saw the mighty eagle taking flight, his wings spreading out and darkening the wall. “May the battle go swiftly and victoriously!” This proclamation gave the Ranger heart, and some of the Men of the Mark cheered at hearing this. Suddenly, Aragorn felt two strong slender arms embracing him. He knew it was the Elven prince.

“Aragorn! How long it was since I have last seen you! Where are Gimli and Mithrandir?”

The Ranger smiled; glad to see his friend again after so long an absence. “Gimli is over yonder on this wall, Legolas. He has his axe bared for Orc-heads, as is his fashion. Gandalf went off on an unspoken errand. Come, my friend! Let us prepare you for war. Did you bring your weapons?”

Legolas released him, and nodded. “Yes, albeit the knife is the only weapon that I could use. I have received a wound in Imladris, with great pain and it hinders my movement. So this is Helm’s Deep, the fort of the Men of the Mark. Let us meet Gimli, for I long to speak with him! It is lonely within lord Elrond’s house when there is no one to talk to.”

“No one?” This surprised Aragorn. There were other Elves there – did none speak and invite Legolas within their circles of counsel? “Elrond’s house is never bereft of merriment and fair speech and song.”

“They are cold towards strangers, even if they are kindred.”

Aragorn clasped the Elf’s shoulder, shaking him gently to rid him of his melancholy. He knew what Legolas spoke of, and of the harshness of Elven prejudices. It must have grieved the tenderhearted Elf terribly to find rejection instead of acceptance upon his return; this also saddened Aragorn. The hospitality of his foster father’s household was well renowned, and because of cruelty, Legolas had seen something other than when he had first arrived at Rivendell. How could those Elves be callous if they had never experienced agony and torment?

“Come then, Legolas. Let us meet Gimli, and then clad you in mail and helm.”

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The night stood strong and black; below, from where he sat, he could see a myriad of flames – some in orderly lines, and others scattered like crimson stars. Legolas glanced down at Gimli, who stood confidently and grimly beneath him. The Dwarf’s axe rested on his shoulder, whilst Gimli held the haft. The faint red glow of the torches below illuminated the iron of the mighty blade with a scarlet light like that of blood.

Legolas shivered, and turned back to focus over the wall. The breastwork of the Deeping Wall was sturdy and strong, built out of stone chiseled by diligent hands and mortar spread by men thinking of defense. His calculations were not wrong. The wall was wide enough for four men to walk on, and high enough so that only tall ladders could scale its immensity. The Elf had no doubt in mind that the forces of Isengard would have ladders equipped, for how else would they assail a fort? He now sat on the parapet that protected the soldiers defending the wall, for this was where he could see his enemies.

His enemies. Adversaries. Foes. Carrion for vultures and ravens. The Elf closed his eyes briefly, only to reopen them. Orcs were once Elves; Saruman said this ere he gave him over for sport. Mithrandir had not denied the fact but instead spoke openly of it and confirmed the fallen Istari’s words. This drew a shudder from Legolas. Once fair and kind, pitiful and gentle; now twisted and cruel, mean and perverse. He could still feel their grimy hands grasping at his flesh, drawing blood and throwing him on to the hard earth. Their foul breath upon his neck as they stripped him of his clothes, baring his back for whips and blades. Their feral eyes burning with hatred as they threatened to slay him in the end, when their sport was done. How he had cringed when the agony grew worse, and of how he resisted when his pride overcame his fear.

Orcs were once Elves. Elves could become Orcs. He could become an Orc. He was in the guise of one when his will fell, with no thanks towards Saruman who cursed him doubly for his opposition. Any Elf could become one, if Melkor or Sauron willed it with vengeance. To become a minion pledged to the Dark Lord was a horrid thought; Legolas stared down at Gimli, who now spoke.

“This is more to my liking! Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike – that you missed, Master Legolas. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water.”

Of course Gimli loved the mountains; he was a Dwarf. Legolas did not like Helm’s Deep much, not after he became acquainted with the place. After Aragorn clothed him in mail and helm, he left for the Deeping Wall and strode around. Helm’s Deep felt of many battles past, and of bloodshed. He did not like this place, for he loved the trees and tranquil rivers near his home. He was only a warrior due to these dark times; no Elf desired killing and the loss of life, unless it was of many Elf-lords during the First and Second Age. Their folly led them to their downfall, nearly destroying their race. Although Melkor was behind it, the Elves were not entirely blameless in their actions.

Below him, Gimli grunted. Flames still burned, crimson and terrible, and Legolas thought then of a vision that he had nearly forgotten. Lothlórien set afire and razed, blackened by malice and its inhabitants driven out. He averted his sight, trembling. Not now at this crucial time! Not when they were confronting their enemies! He was his father’s son! Why should he relive old torments?

He was about to shed blood. The Orcs of Saruman were going to attempt storming through their gates, slaying anyone in their path. Whether they were of Men, Dwarves, Elves, or even simple beasts, all were going to fall if the enemy took hold of their ground. Legolas fingered the handle of his silver-hafted knife. Could he still slay them, his twisted kinsmen? Was it an act of mercy to rid them of their perverse lives? Was he in the right to do so? He unsheathed the knife and held it forth before him, turning the glistening metal this way and that. His brother, Mornereg stabbed him with this weapon, believing in false justice.

But that was not justice – that was nearly murder.

Was this any different?

Flipping the knife in the air, he caught it again by the handle with a nimble turn of the wrist. This was a decision he had to make. If he did not slay them, they would do so to him. There was no mercy involved in this battle. His foes had to die; it was the way of survival.

But did that make it right?

Legolas shook his head, confused. Ever since his torture and Saruman’s giving of this dark knowledge, he did not know what to believe. Mornereg nearly slew him, perhaps thinking that he was ridding his father of an unnecessary burden; that belief shocked and grieved him. It still remained a void within his soul, as if unresolved. He could not bring himself to forgive Mornereg, though the elder was his brother. Blood tied them close but different outlooks separated them. The spilling of blood only further widened that unspoken chasm. Grief dwelt deep in him, and if he willed himself to, Legolas would have wept.

Mornereg held himself as a higher authority, wielding an unbending rod of judgment and conviction. Was he about to do the same with these Orcs – these creations of Melkor and Sauron – who had no say in their birth? Did he hold himself above them? They were fallen Elves as well, shunned and hated by all. Legolas tightened his grip on his knife. The time was drawing nearer at hand, when his blade and his conscience would have to decide the answers to these questions.

As if his instincts were correct, he suddenly heard hoarse cries and wild yells roaring hideously from below, and he turned back towards the wall, looking over it. The enemy had tried to mount an attack, but was deterred by riders whom gathered together in a tight formation, galloping over the field and towards the rampart. The many torches, flickering crimson flames, broke out of their lines, scattering swiftly over the plain. The forces of Isengard were attacking.

“The enemy is at hand!” cried forth the riders. “We loosed every arrow that we had, and filled the Dike with Orcs. But it will not halt them long. Already they are scaling the bank at many points, thick as marching ants. But we have taught them not to carry torches.”

The air was stifling. Legolas breathed hard, glancing down towards darkness when lightning flashed, followed by an immense rumble of thunder. White light cracked the sky in twain, illuminating the Dike. There were many fell shapes, each struggling to climb upwards and towards the fort. Legolas squinted his keen eyes, and thought he spotted helms and shields. He looked at his knife. There was going to be a hard battle fought. The Orcs were armed; what of he?

Already their foes approached, swiftly and without pause. A dark mass of moving bodies surmounted the breach, and now advanced towards the Deeping Wall. Legolas grasped his weapon hard, and leapt from the parapet. What was the use of a warrior if he decided to sit on his heels and to forego the fight? He gazed at Gimli, who nodded at him. “May this fight not be your last, Master Dwarf.”

“As for you, Master Legolas, I also wish that.” So saying, Gimli left him; axe in hand.

Legolas smiled grimly.

He would soon find his answers, or perhaps none at all.