Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter XVIII

Rain matted his hair to his face, and Legolas pushed the sodden strands aside. Shortly after lightning split the sky in twain, it was as if the forces of the heavens had also mounted their assault. Water lashed down upon them like cold iron barbs; a storm had broken. The men defending the Deeping Wall, most of them archers, let fire upon the enemy below a whistling tempest of arrows. Some found its mark; others glanced off of mail, helm, and shield and were thereby trampled as the Orcs surged forward towards the gates and the wall. If Legolas had not received his wound in Imladris, he would have withdrawn and nocked his bow; instead, he closed his hand around his silver-hafted knife and ran out into the storm along the top of the battlements.

A whistling reply of shafts fired from below arched towards the men on the wall. Legolas, hearing the sound of arrows, ducked beneath an immense stone jutting out from atop the battlements. As he watched, some of the black-feathered shafts found marks amongst the standing men. Their bodies crumpled to the stone floor, blood soaking through their mail and tunics. The Elf shivered, and drew his limbs closer towards his body. Blood had been shed, below and above. It would not be long before the enemy attempted to break through the gates, or to surmount the high wall. Rain continued spattering down upon the cold stone; crimson rivulets beneath the fallen Men of the Mark soon faded, their tendrils turned into nothing more than water.

Legolas stood again, and glanced below. White light flashed across the dark expanse above him, and he saw their foes. Orcs and Men, fell beings turned towards the power of Isengard. A white hand, almost silver in the blinding light, was emblazoned on every bit of armoury that they wore. A white hand. The Orcs that had seized him many days ago had had this symbol upon their helms and shields; accompanying that ghastly icon was the Elvish script for the letter ‘S’ standing for Saruman. He did not see that now but the hand told him enough.

Arrows returned for the deaths of their comrades-in-arms now found their lodgings within Orc-heads or through mail-clad bodies. Some of the fallen in the enemy ranks were mere men, wild and untamed. Legolas turned away from the wall, and ran along its path, down towards where the action was strongest. Stones were thrown, and screams and yells were heard from below. As the young prince darted towards his destination, he could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet.

The enemy was attempting to seize the gates.

A rain of arrows flew from below; Legolas, his senses keen, immediately slipped behind the wall, pressing his body close to the stones. More Men of the Mark, unwary of the shafts during their watch, fell. Blood pooled on the stones, only to be swept away from the torrents of rain battering at them. Legolas turned his eyes away. He had seen death before, many a time ere now. His friends, lost when fighting against the forces of Dol Guldur. If found in time, they were uncorrupted by foul hands. If not, they were flayed and blinded, their eyes gouged out as tokens to the Dark Lord. His mother had fallen, her heart pierced through by an Orcish blade. He had seen Boromir dying on the slopes of Emyn Muil, his chest riddled with black-feathered shafts. He had come close to dying – death was ever near.

This was why he now fought.

Rumbles from beneath alerted him. Legolas leapt to his feet, glancing towards his right. He thought he glimpsed Aragorn and Éomer heading down, conversing possibly about the assault upon the gates. He felt useless here, standing on top of the wall. If his injury had not been so severe, he could still use his bow and arrows to aid the men defending the battlements. But with Mornereg’s delivered blow, he could not try fate, for if the wound should open, he would bleed to death. What good would he do if he caused himself to die?

Roars from below startled him out of his thoughts. Staring at where Aragorn and Éomer used to stand ere they left, Legolas gripped his knife and lowered it to his side. Then he began to run, dodging fell arrows and the bodies of standing and fallen men.

He had questions to answer, and work to do.

“Andúril! Andúril for the Dúnedain!” Aragorn’s sword flashed in the lightning as he fought, smiting down every man or Orc that dared to oppose him. This was what Legolas saw upon joining the melee, for he did not fear to strike down men, albeit he did not wish to, either. However, this was war. If he did not slay them, they would not hesitate to mingle his blood with the rain. Several swordsmen were fighting for Helm’s Deep, savaging their way through the rammers. Next to Aragorn, Éomer thrust his blade through a man’s midsection, staining the weapon.

Legolas turned, hearing shouts behind him. Two men flanked him on either side, seeking to trap him in betwixt them so that they could impale him. Moving swiftly, he whirled around the man on his right and drove his knife deeply between his opponent’s shoulder blades. Blood gushed out from the mortal wound, and the Elf jerked his weapon free, spraying crimson upon his mail and his gloved hand. The other man rushed him, his sword held above his head. Legolas had seen this tactic before, and it never failed to amuse him. It seemed mighty to Men but to Elves, it was a foolish way to assail a foe.

Quickly, ere the eye could follow, the Elf hurled his knife. The way he had his weapon crafted, Legolas wanted it to be properly balanced enough so that he could use it in close combat; however, he also had it made so that the blade weighed more than the hilt. In this way, he could use it as a throwing implement, and warrant that the knife would not snap under excessive force. His foe grunted sharply as the blade thudded into his throat, dropping his sword and collapsing to the ground. As Legolas strode over, he noticed that the man was lying on his side, as if the bones in his body were no more. Sorrow overtook the Elf; he knelt down and flipped the body over. Scarlet streams flowed from the man’s throat, grotesque with the still protruding knife in the open wound. Legolas tore off his glove, feeling the blood sliding beneath his fingers.

Already, he claimed two lives.

“I am sorry,” he said softly before he closed the man’s sightless eyes. “It is a dark time that we have witnessed.” Lightning flashed from above, illuminating the pallid face that he beheld. Crimson streaks covered the eyelids; soon, the rain would purify the corpse. Legolas smoothly withdrew his knife and stood. Something within him told him to shut his eyes to the harshness of the situation; he was fighting for his life, which was the truth. But Legolas did not want the mere sight of bloodshed to deaden his emotions. Although he hated the taking of pity, he could freely give it. A contradiction unto himself – very well, then.

Raising his face towards the sky, he allowed some tears to fall.

The mastery of weapons allowed him to become an adept warrior but this skill conflicted with his outlook on life. He did not like to kill. Thranduil, his father, knew of his gentle nature and therefore taught it to him accordingly, teaching him how to slay swiftly and without mercy. The bow and arrows, along with his knife were his choice of weapons. Often, his brothers questioned his reluctance to wield a sword; Legolas did not see why his decision was so hard to understand. A sword was long and broad, suited for hewing limbs or stabbing through vulnerable bodies; often, it caused more agony ere death came. As for a knife, it was simple. One swift stab or slash through the vital areas, and it was over.

Still, regardless of what weapons were used, death was frighteningly mysterious. Death was a gift to Men; immortality, though seen as fortunate by some, was often a bane for Elves. Living longer did not always promise prosperity and joy. More than once, Legolas had seen fear and turmoil, life and death, and war and cruelty upon his father’s kingdom. He had lost friends and allies during the Battle of the Five Armies, and he had wept later for their losses, both in family and in health. He had cradled one of his closest friends on the battleground, pleading for him to live even as his lifeblood seeped into the dry earth. The only way to escape immortality was to die from grief or from mortal wounds.

“Legolas!”

Lowering his head, Legolas thanked the storm in his heart for hiding his tears. It would not do for Aragorn to see him mourning a fallen foe, no matter how humane it was. Éomer strode over, his sword dripping with water and blood. The captain’s helm was awry, with the white tail battered down by the rain. The man’s eyes shone fiercely with vigor and pride as he walked alongside Aragorn. The Elven prince smiled wanly at the Ranger, who glanced up at the sky, smiling.

“Look and listen, Legolas. The storm is abating.”

Legolas gazed towards the south, where tiny tongues of lightning stabbed through the sky, illuminating the mountains in the distance. Overhead, the dark expanse was clearing, with only a light drizzle being the aftereffect of the tempest. Thunder rumbled gruffly, far away from where he stood. The black clouds, once thick and billowing in their terrible magnificence, now drifted across the open sky, thin and sheer. Through their nearly transparent forms shone stars, pale and white like chaste flowers scattered on a dark lake. Above the hills to his west, the moon shone, yellow in her beauty. There was now starlight and moonlight; relief filled the heart of Legolas.

“Yes,” he said, turning to Aragorn, “the rain has ceased and we have light to guide our paths upon this sturdy fort. Alas for my premonition that the fight is not yet over! The forces of Isengard have only started – there will be more bloodshed ere this night is done.” So saying, he left the Ranger and the Rider to stare at him as he turned back to the corpse at his feet. “There will be more blood spilt; will we be one of the living or one of the fallen?”

“The gates are damaged. Had we tarried a bit longer, they would have broken through.” Aragorn surveyed the splintered wooden beams, running his hand over the crushed front. Éomer glanced up and down at the twisted iron hinges and bars, his grey eyes smoldering. Legolas raised his sight, and beheld the cracks in the gates. Stepping closer, he laid his hand on the wood, feeling the gaps with tension running through his mind. It had been a close one. Aragorn spoke truly; it would have only taken a few more minutes ere the gates gave way and the enemy stormed in.

One of his senses flared, and Legolas whirled around. Sweeping the terrain with his keen sight, he soon found what it was that perturbed him. “Cease your talk!” Along the causeway teemed many Orcs and wild hill-men, armed with swords and shields and clad in the armour of Isengard. One of the Orcs snarled viciously, and the Elf felt the blood rushing and draining from his face. This was the first Orc he had seen since his capture at Emyn Muil, and this was his first battle against them since that fell day. His hand trembled; Legolas quickly caught a hold of his wrist with his ungloved one, curling his fingers around the tender flesh.

It would not do for him to show fear before his enemies.

“Hurry!” cried forth Éomer, rallying the standing swordsmen, Aragorn, and he. Arrows fired from the causeway ricocheted off stones. Legolas threw a glance behind his shoulder as he gathered with the Men of the Mark. Those shafts had been released in a hurry, failing in accuracy. Éomer’s white tail of his helm was a bright beacon in the darkness, and he kept that in his sight as he ran. The postern-door was not far, only a few feet away. That was their only hope of escape. “We cannot defend these gates without forsaking our lives! Let us go back within and bar their way without by piling stones and beams inside the fort!”

Éomer’s words were barely spoken before Legolas suddenly halted and turned back. There was something wrong. As he looked back, he felt the haft of his knife tight and secure within his hand. Throwing down the leather-and-mail glove he held, the Elf retreated a few steps to give himself room. There were at least a dozen Orcs now rising from the ground. They had played a dangerous façade but they had survived. How, Legolas did not know. He glanced at each one, at those burning feral eyes that flared with hatred of all things beautiful. Terrible memories overwhelmed him, and the words of Saruman were like a fell knell in the silence of his mind.

“Legolas!”

Legolas paid no heed to Aragorn’s sudden cry. Orcs were once Elves, he thought, anguished. Now was the time for his conscience to speak true. Should he slay them or not? One of the Orcs yelled and charged towards him, arm raised for a downward slash. Sidestepping the blow with the speed and agility he possessed, Legolas sought to give himself enough time to make his decision. Another Orc came from behind him, and he ducked, watching as a black blade bit deeply into the neck of the other Orc. Dark blood dripped from the sword and on to the ground, steaming as it met with the wet stone. The first Orc toppled back, throat severed. His weapon clattered to the ground and skittered off the edge of the path, falling into the recesses below.

Rising swiftly to his feet, Legolas darted in between the Orcs attempting to surround him. The captain of their small mob lunged at him, his hands open as if to grab him by his mail shirt. Whirling around, Legolas grasped his knife by the blade with his gloved hand and sent the hilt slamming down in between the Orc’s eyes. Stunned, the Orc fell unconscious to the ground. A rough arm grabbed him around the throat and pulled back, threatening to throttle him; Legolas choked back a cry and stabbed the mail-clad limb ferociously. With a scream of pain and hatred, the foul creature released him, clutching its arm.

He had injured the Orc’s swordarm.

Orcs were once Elves. The phrase ran through his mind like a mocking litany, repetitive in its truth. Orcs were once Elves. Elves could become Orcs. This would not do! He was in the middle of fighting for his life! Dodging yet another blow, Legolas sidestepped an Orc and found himself encircled. Snarls of hatred issued from each cruel mouth and eyes slitted in rage. He glared back, though he found himself still wavering in his decision. Should he slay them or not? They were once his kinsmen, even if they were the Avari of the First Age!

His question was soon answered. Surrounded as he was, he remembered the day he fell captive at Emyn Muil, and fear stirred in his heart. That time, he was tortured; this time, he would die. The situation at hand was similar, if not alarmingly so – he was trapped yet again. If he received a wound this time, many more would follow that not even Aragorn’s hands could heal. The circle collapsed towards him, threatening to overwhelm him. Legolas narrowed his eyes and ducked beneath an Orc’s arm, placing himself out of danger. Enraged, the Orcs broke formation and charged wildly at him, shouting and yelling.

That was when Legolas found himself strangely caught in between his question and his answer. Should he kill them or not? If he did not, they would slay him without a thought. That would not that happen, and yet, if he should hesitate, it would become reality. Orcs were once Elves. An Orc lunged at him, his sword gleaming wickedly in the pale starlight and moonlight. Stepping back, Legolas returned his knife to his ungloved hand, ready for combat. Memories were returning, each one horrid or agonizing in some shape or form.

His knife found its lodging within the belly of the foul creature before him.

As the Orc fell, a single casualty for this small skirmish, many more replaced him. Their feral eyes, slitted and furious, burned like yellow flames. Legolas never found himself dodging blows more swiftly than now, and he used his fleet-footedness to give himself some distance. Why was he still questioning himself? He had already slain one; did he find something wrong with that?

Once again, he parried and thrust, stabbed and slashed. Orcs fell before him like dying leaves, scattered upon the narrow path. The ones that fell too close to the edge tumbled over, colliding with the sharp cliffs below. Others lay on the ground, their blood black and slippery. Aragorn, who had cried out his name, had not come. Doubtlessly, the Men of the Mark and the Ranger saw him dispatching his opponents one by one. Still, a dozen Orcs was a task that was easier to wound or to kill with arrows.

Just as the tenth Orc fell before him, clutching its severed throat before expiring, Legolas’ senses flared. Where were the other two? There were twelve at least. Orcs could not vanish like smoke upon wind. The litany in his mind derided him cruelly, proclaiming him a murderer and a hypocrite. Orcs were once Elves, and Elves could become Orcs. Ten he slew while detachment was the only thing he felt. He did not kill them with his full heart; something was holding him back. It was as if mist or haze shrouded him; it still did.

Legolas started to look back. Something was not right. Something felt out of place, eerily wrong. Where were the other two Orcs? He turned around and faced the path leading towards the gate. They were not there. Just then, he heard a noise behind him, and he whirled around. A brute hand caught him across the face, knocking him nearly senseless to the hard stone path. Yellow eyes burned like fire and hideous grins of malicious delight revealed sharp stained teeth. Frantic, Legolas brought his arm up, only to feel his wrist bending backwards unto itself. His knife fell from his nerveless fingers and dropped to the ground with a sharp ring.

“Legolas!”

Aragorn. Aragorn had seen him. Pain threatened to overcome him, and he winced as the Orc standing over him knelt down and jerked his head back. They were going to sever his throat. They were once Elves. How could Elves become creatures like such? The Orc straddling him unsheathed his knife, the blade gleaming black in the moonlight. Suddenly, Legolas remembered a memory so foul and cruel that he nearly panicked. This had happened to him before. When the Orcs threw him to the dry earth near the woods of Fangorn for their last sport, they had held a knife to his throat. Some of them clamored for his death; others disagreed, fighting amongst themselves. Then, Saruman stepped into their midst, and the knife was withdrawn.

The Orc above him howled with triumph, raising his weapon into the air.

Legolas shut his eyes, ready to die.

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!” Warmth covered his face, and Legolas felt the pressure on his wrist lessening. Running his hand over his bloodstained eyes, he opened them and found himself gazing into Gimli’s triumphant visage. Quickly, he sat up, only to find two Orc-heads lying behind him, grinning gruesomely. Dark blood spattered the narrow path; it was also on his mail, helm, and face. Pushing the slain Orc’s corpse off of him, Legolas ran his fingers over his face, cleaning himself as best as he could. He found his breath coming short; he was frightened. Upon glancing right, he glimpsed his knife. Reaching over, he reclaimed and sheathed it.

“Are you all right, my friend?” asked Gimli, leaning on his axe. “That was almost the end of your life there.”

Before he could answer, Aragorn and Éomer were at his side. “Legolas, are you hurt? That was folly, confronting a dozen by yourself. In Emyn Muil, it was different – we were facing only a slight number. Here, the forces of Isengard are against us. If it were not for Gimli, your throat would be slit by now.” The concern and the mild anger in Aragorn’s words made Legolas stand in frustration. True, Gimli saved his life; that he was grateful for. But slight numbers near Parth Galen? There were so many Orcs roaming the forest at the time! Twelve he could handle, for he had slain higher numbers ere he fell captive. Insulted, he glared at his friend.

“It might seem like folly to some,” he said, not bothering to hide the sting of his words, “but I felt their presence. If they had reached us, then what of our valiant stand to defend the gates? Aragorn, you know of my questions – should I leave them unanswered? Should I let the others dispatch our foes, whilst I stand idly on top of the battlements? Albeit I question myself when faced with Orcs, I cannot allow myself to disregard danger. There were twelve, and I have fought and slain more. You mentioned fewer numbers at Emyn Muil – then how did I become captive to such a small remnant?”

Arrows, fired from the causeway, smashed into the rocks beside them. Éomer grabbed his arm, and pulled him upwards, back towards the direction of the postern-door. “Come! We may talk after we are safely within the fort! Their arrows may miss but we cannot be sure!” Jerking his arm from the Rider’s grasp, Legolas followed him with Aragorn and Gimli behind him. Although the knife had never descended upon his throat, the Elf felt its sharp edge nicking his neck. It was the same sensation he had felt that night, when the blade drew blood and the Orcs howled, delighting in their sport. Afraid of what had befallen him, with his memories and near death, Legolas kept silent. He was not sure if he was reliving his torment or mingling it with the battle to the point to where it haunted him.

If so, then his next few fights would indeed prove difficult.

“They came out of the shadows behind you, Master Legolas,” said Gimli, leaning against the postern. “You were aware that I had left ere you did. Sleep was soon to seize me, and I sought to be rid of it. The hill-men were too large and tall for my stature, so I sat beside a stone to watch the fight. Little did I know that an Elf would need help from a Dwarf.”

“Even Elves run into difficulty.” Troubled, Legolas shut his eyes. He could not rid himself of that feeling of dread, of something about ready to pounce upon him. Already, he could not differentiate the images and sensations of his torment from his last experience in battle. He still felt the blade against his throat, seeking the blood of an Elf. Shuddering, he leaned harder against the stone wall. Screams wailed in his mind; the cries of fallen kinsmen, slaughtered during the Battle of the Five Armies. Then, he heard his own cry, and he opened his eyes, shocked.

“That makes two!”

Legolas glanced at Gimli, trying to hide his discomfort from the Dwarf. “Two?”

“Two Orcs! Master Legolas – how many did you slay?”

“Ten,” he stated flatly. Suddenly, he knew what Gimli meant. “You wish a contest of kills, Master Dwarf?” Gimli’s suggestion did not repulse him, but it did not appeal to him, either. By slaying ten of those creatures, he had slaughtered those that were once Elves. The litany in his head repeated itself in a maddening stream of words, mocking his decision. Orcs were once Elves. Elves could become Orcs. Legolas pressed his head back against the wall, willing that voice to desist. If he did not kill them, he would already be dead.

“Ten? Then you have me in a tight corner, Master Legolas! Ere this night is over, I shall try defeating your number!”

“You may not even have to try,” Legolas said, unsheathing his knife and running his fingers over the blade. “It might be easier than you believe it to be, Gimli.”

Shouts arose from the Deeping Wall and from around them, the din deafening to the ears. Gimli immediately raced for the wall, whilst Legolas lingered behind a bit longer. So now he was involved in a contest of kills with Gimli. The Dwarf, seeking vengeance for what had been done to Moria, the realm of his people, could easily swing his axe at any limb or body without thinking twice. For Legolas, though, the contest proved a thorn in his flesh. He had killed, taken down Orcs just a while ago. He did it to defend himself, not because he did it for sport. And yet, he did not wish to disappoint Gimli by refusing to partake in the game suggested. Gritting his teeth, Legolas wielded his silver-hafted knife and headed for the wall.

All the while, the feeling of the knife-edge lingered against his throat.

Grappling hooks swung from below hurled upwards, gripping its metal claws into stone and mortar. Ten score of them whipped towards the defenders on the Deeping Wall, bringing along with them climbing Orcs and hill-men. Legolas darted towards the edge of the wall, slashing at the ropes with ferocity. The bloodstained Elvish knife bit deeply into the twisted cords, severing them and dropping from the battlements’ height a whole trail of foul creatures. Screams arose from the deep, and the Men of the Mark shot arrows down at the surging dark mass that threatened to overwhelm them. Ladders sprung up against the wall, tall and strong in their make.

Returning fire, the Orcs let loose a whistling storm of arrows that found its mark amongst the standing men. Legolas grimaced as a shaft flew by his face, grazing his cheek with its sharp fletching. Swiftly dropping to the floor, he watched yet again as his fellow allies fell; some grunting as the shafts pierced through mail and others collapsing as wood and metal slammed through their brains. Blood pooled around their bodies and leaked from their mouths. Horror filled the Elf, and he sprang to his feet even as the first few Orcs surmounted the wall and engaged in battle.

Two Orcs saw him, and charged towards him. A blow aimed at his midsection he dodged, stepping lightly backwards, only to turn full circle, slamming his knife up to the hilt in the creature’s back. Black blood, viscous and foul, gushed from the wound. Rapidly pulling his weapon out, Legolas turned to face the other roaming Orc. His senses told him to look behind, and he ducked as he did so. The dark blade sang an eerie song above him, missing him completely. The Orc’s belly was exposed to him. Dashing forward, Legolas drove his blade through mail, cloth, and flesh. A hiss of pain and hatred from the dying Orc caught his attention.

“So, this is an Elf against me!”

A sharp pain ran through his side, and Legolas gritted his teeth, ripping his knife in a curve through the Orc’s body, eviscerating it. As the body fell at his feet, the Elf felt his limbs trembling. Without looking, he closed his fingers around the small hilt protruding from his side, grasping it firmly. The Orc had stabbed him ere he fell, seeing that he was an Elf. Darkness hazed his mind as the blade tore out of his flesh; Legolas leaned back against the wall, blood red upon his shining mail. His breath came in broken gasps as he sought to bring more air into his lungs. Releasing the dagger in his hand, he let it fall to the stone below with a harsh ring.

This wound could become mortal if he did not soon seek aid.

And yet, he would still have to fight. Another Orc, seeing him helpless, sprang towards him; its sword brought back for an impaling blow. Legolas moved swiftly, his hand whipping around in a deadly arc towards the other’s unprotected throat. The Elvish blade slid easily into the soft gullet, nearly beheading the fell being. His breath stifled, and Legolas shook his head to clear the dizziness. He may have looked harmless but he did not intend to become easy prey for Saruman’s forces. So far, he had tallied thirteen kills.

How many did Gimli have?

As fate would have it, shouts suddenly arose from behind the Deeping Wall. The Orcs had come through the culvert, creeping stealthily till they had reached the inner constructs of the fort. Panicked horses whinnied in fright, and the guards below fought against invasion. Some of the Men of the Mark that could lend their aid leapt off the wall, swords bared for further combat. Along with them leapt Gimli, whom Legolas instantly glimpsed by the great axe he carried with him.

“Khazâd! Khazâd!” The Dwarf’s voice bellowed out fiercely in the gloom. “Ai-oi! The Orcs are behind the wall. Ai-oi! Come, Legolas! There are enough for us both. Khazâd ai-mênu!”

Blood still streaming from his side, Legolas nimbly leapt down from the wall. The Orcs were within the gates from an inward assault; he could not lie idly about. Landing on to the ground below, stumbling slightly due to his wound, Legolas hurled himself into the fray. Next to him fought Gimli, wielding his axe with such dexterity that Orcs fell at his feet like scattered leaves in a forest. If they lacked arms, legs, or heads, it was because the Dwarf knew what he was doing. Bringing his blade across with deadly accuracy, Legolas swiped out an Orc’s eyes. Screaming, the creature dropped its sword, groping its empty sockets with bloodied fingers. Immediately, without pause, his knife found its way into the Orc’s heart, ending its miserable life.

Smoothly retrieving his blade from the deceased, Legolas turned on his heel and dashed for the Deeping Wall. His tally had now reached twenty kills. Still, he felt some dark shadow hanging over him, as if soon to engulf him. It was the mingling of past and present, and Legolas bit his lip, afraid of this portent. Elves never disregarded premonitions, be they dark or joyous. Something had snapped within him during the battle at the gates, and it meshed his fears together with his current plight.

Shivering with dread, Legolas climbed the stairs. As he reached the battlements, four large Orcs wielding shields and notched swords dashed at him, attempting to enclose him within their circle. Shields against a long knife – this was going to be a difficult fight to win. Blood continued to flow down his side, leaving a trail of red wherever he walked. Realizing his weakness and what it meant for him, Legolas retreated a few steps. One hand held his weapon, albeit less tightly than he used to wield it and his other hand clamped his wound, blood seeping through his fingers. His breath was short, and he fought to regain his strength.

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!” The tongue of his people, evoking one revered for guidance and courage. The Elvish words enraged his opponents, who now knew what he was. Their anger and hostility was fierce enough against Men and Dwarves; against an Elf, their contempt and hatred would sear the hearts around them. “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” he cried forth yet again, desperate. His strength was failing; he would not be able to proclaim victory in this fight.

But that did not mean that he would easily fall.

As the first Orc rushed him, sword swinging in an underhand blow in an attempt to decapitate him, Legolas bent backwards, using his flexibility as another tool of war. The notched blade barely missed him, nearly grazing the top of his helm. Using his position and stance, Legolas swung his hand around to his left in a half circle, carrying his momentum and speed in the blow. The tip of his silver-hafted knife sunk into the soft flesh of the Orc’s neck, carving a wide slit in the vulnerable throat. Gurgling, the creature crumpled at his feet. That was one less minion of Saruman – one of their kinds that caused him so much agony.

And yet, that was one less twisted Elf.

He saw the Orc behind him at the same time a vivid memory assailed him. Whirling around, almost stumbling because of the loss of blood, he parried aside the sword aimed for his chest. He was lying prostrate on the ground, his face turned to the side. Legolas batted away the dark shining edge, finding himself in lack of air. This would not do if he were to live! Orcs were Elves. Elves, through torture like he had endured, could become these foul creatures. A grimy, swarthy hand seized him by the hair, jerking his face upward. His lip bled, torn by a brutal fist. Breathing hard and wincing as he felt the warmth leaking down his side, Legolas shook his head, willing the memory to leave. There were two more Orcs behind him.

How was he going to defeat them in this state?

Grasping hold of the last sources of strength in his body, the Elven prince raced towards the Orc, who was taken by surprise at this seemingly suicidal move. This was the creature’s downfall as Legolas stabbed it in between the eyes, piercing through bone and into the brain. With a clatter of sword and shield, the Orc fell like a limp sack, limbs splayed out. Yellow eyes met him, hellish and murderous. He glanced at them, wielding the gory implement in his hand with ease. The night he had been pillaged of all he was worth, they had tormented him with a blade. The Orc that held him up by the hair laughed cruelly, speaking of the destruction of his home and of the flaying of his body after his death. He had resisted, only finding himself facing the point of a knife. Two Orcs were dead, fallen like mere leaves during autumn.

His blood flowed down his mail, down his leg and on to the stone floor.

Roaring, the last two Orcs flanked him, shields suddenly raised and swung as if to catch him off his guard. He saw Elves in his mind, glorious and fair. Lindir, Glorfindel, and the Lady Galadriel. These Orcs were once Elves like them. His mind cried out viciously, calling him a fool and murderer. Unable to dodge the shields, Legolas felt the wooden edge of one smacking him across the jaw, throwing him to the ground. His shoulder, wounded by Mornereg, took the impact of the fall, splitting the stitches beneath his tunic. A gasp of pain he heard from his lips, and he flung his hand against the wounded region.

He was bleeding.

The Orc standing above him brought its sword up as if to impale him where he lay, and Legolas lashed out his feet, tripping it. As the Orc tumbled down, his weapon turned towards the flat of the blade, landing harmlessly on the Elf’s torso. Gritting his teeth, Legolas brought his knife down into the back of the Orc’s neck, hearing the sickening grating of bone and the wet gush of blood from a severed jugular. Black fluid stained his mail and hands, sticky and repulsive. He had killed another Orc; yet another fallen Elf.

When he had struggled against his captors, they had traced his back with the edge of their knives. He had writhed, feeling nothing but agony when his flesh parted beneath their blades, spilling forth his lifeblood. He had cried out in Elvish, screaming in Sindarin for the aid of the Valar and for Ilúvatar. But no help came. Legolas turned his head, glimpsing a dark shape kneeling down towards him. Fear surged into his heart, and he grasped a hold of the silver haft of his knife, pulling it out of the grisly corpse on top of him.

Orcs were once Elves. He bled from his shoulder and from his side. His vision darkened, and then blurred as he blinked. He would not die here! He made a promise to Nimthôn that he would return! The lord Elrond told him that if his wound opened, he would bleed to death. He did not want to die! The voice in his mind wailed shrilly, telling him he had lost his honour. He had slain his own people, even if they were fallen. If it were right, he should have let them kill him. No! They were once Elves – they were no longer what they used to be! How could he forfeit his own life just so that he would be righteous?

Mornereg wanted him dead. That was obvious from the madness that ensued, leading towards the bloodshed at the threshold of his room. Blood, crimson and wet, horrible and beautiful. What a contradiction! Strong hands, fingers curling around his neck, tightened. His windpipe suddenly crushed, Legolas choked, fighting for breath. The Orc had seized him! His face pressed towards dark earth to silence his cries. That was when the Istari came upon them on the outskirts of Fangorn, and ordered his last shame. It was terrible enough to be beaten and bruised but no other torment was worse than violation, than the taking of what one held dear and true.

Soon, he would die. Like his mother, slain by an Orcish blade that dripped red with her blood. He had not been able to save her. He had failed Boromir. He had fallen captive to his foes. He had slaughtered Orcs during this battle, seeking his own redemption and life. Had he found it? Was he doing it for the right motive? Elves could become Orcs; the phrase hummed through his mind like a frenzied chant, casting its spell upon him. His fingers gripped the slippery handle of his knife, even as he felt himself losing consciousness. He had managed to bring himself to kill those he had once feared to slay – had he made his decision? Did it bring with it a heavy price that he could not pay?

“Die, accursed Elf!”

At that moment, Legolas arched his knife backwards, directly into the mouth of the Orc strangling him. A soft grunt sounded behind him, and the lax body fell across him, heavy and foul. He had no more strength to push it off; he had spent it all with the last blow of his blade. Darkness swelled beneath him and covered him, dragging his eyelids down. He wanted to rest, to sleep, and to heal. Before he surrendered to the soothing silence of nothingness, a strange thought ran through his head.

That made two dozen Orcs to counter Gimli’s tally.

And then he heard a voice crying out his name – did Aragorn find him?

“Legolas!”

“Namárië,” he whispered, “till I awake.”

Author’s Later Note: I noticed one of my mistakes, which was none other than simple math. Amy, you caught it the same time that I saw it, I think. I was rereading it last night around midnight, and I found it. How could Legolas say that he had two dozen kills when I made him have thirty-six earlier? @.@ It’s corrected now. Legolas first tallies ten, then thirteen, then twenty and crowns it off with twenty-four (two dozen) by killing the last four Orcs in this chapter.

And JadeGoddess, happy thoughts will come in its own time. I don’t like Legolas romances, because I like him the way he is in the book – single and independent. I think Legolas’ personality won’t enable him to endure a love life; he’s too free-spirited. As for joyful moments, this is an angst fic, and I’m letting my characters ‘write’ through me. If Legolas doesn’t want to be given a merry moment, yet, then that is his decision. ^^;;;