In your Eyes: In the Heart of Battle
So lost in his attempt to kill the visible orcs, he had not thought that more were likely to come. These orcs were only scouts and it seemed that the whole company was now running in his direction.
Glancing over the top of his right shoulder, he decided that it would be better for his own health to leave this place. Ignoring the uncontrolled chill running the length of his spine, caused by the heart-breaking alarm cries from the trees, and calling out his horse to make sure he followed him, Legolas ran without looking behind him, elluding without difficulty the few clumsy arrows fired at him. He was faster than his pursuers and, in moments, after making sure that the foul beasts were far away, he slowed down and halted long enough to get his breath back, thanking the Valar for their mercy.
Leaning against the rough bark of a tree, it took him a few moments to realize that something was wrong. It should have been more difficult to ditch them. At least, he should have still been able to hear them. But no sound reached his ears.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his very being, in the frightened whispers of the trees. As a wood elf, the fair prince was very sensitive to the messages from nature and had learned since his early childhood to trust them blindly. Contrary to others species who could reveal themselves as treacherous and false, trees never lied.
From experience, he knew that orcs never abandoned an elf's track. They were too eager to take one of his kin alive, to torture him and to turn his bright light into hopeless darkness. If they had stopped their pursuit of him, it could only mean one thing: they had found someone else to play with. Another prey to torture and kill. A wave of fear for his horse overwhelmed the young elf, but was short-lived as he picked up the characteristic thud of the trot of a horse. Relieved, he gently stroked Naralod's nose when the white stallion joined him, anxious to leave this dangerous place.
Absently, he kept on caressing the satiny-smooth skin. Naralod was safe and the only thing he had to do now was to jump on the back of his horse and quickly ride to Imladris to deliver his father's message to Lord Elrond. It was all he had to do. It was easy, wasn't it? But something hampered him to do so. Something in the wind, something in the rustling of the leaves, something in the back of his mind that told him that something was terribly wrong.
It might be the intimate knowledge that something or someone had caught the orcs' eyes and that this something, or someone, was going to suffer. Whoever this one might be, he certainly did not deserve that treatment and Legolas' pride and honour prevented him from letting anyone fall into the orcs' evil clutches. At least without trying to help him. He knew well what his father would think of such a situation, he could almost hear him speaking:
"Mirkwood is more important than any filthy human or dwarf. It is more important than any elf. You have to fulfil your duty to your people and you must not endanger yourself or your mission. You have to leave..."
But he shook his head, as if to chase away the troubling voice. He knew what he had to do, but he could not do so. Simply. He could not. He had seen, helpless, too many of his fellows falling beneath the threat of darkness. He could not live with the idea of forsaking anyone to such a horrible fate.
All of a sudden, a tremendous scream shattered the silence. The voice of a female mad with suffering and fear. There were a lot of things expressed in this scream: pain, anguish, prayer, surrendering,... More... There were both acceptance and denial.
And the trees wept for that creature...
Legolas heard well the whole scale of feelings displayed in this cry, feelings which made him want to hold his ears to stop the pain spreading in his heart. Pain which made him wish to run away.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the scream stopped. Legolas dared not move. If the yell had been terrible and overwhelming, crashing on him as a heavy wave of despair, the silence was worse. It was deafening. For several seconds, nothing moved, the whole of nature seemed petrified, frozen in its tracks.
The fair prince shook his head. He had known it. But now there was no more hesitation. Without thinking, without even contemplating the idea of letting the poor being manage by herself, Legolas broke into a run in the direction of the scream, his bow still in hand, ready to kill anyone threatening the life of the female. He could only hope that he was not too late. Yet, he didn't jump on Naralod's back, afraid to be heard sooner by the orcs if he came with his horse.
He ran like a possessed soul, putting one foot in front of the other, fast as only the elves could be, jumping over the hurdles coming up to him. With agility and without slowing his race, he avoided the branches hanging from the trees, which could have lashed his eyes, the roots emerging from the ground, the stones and the mud. He ran, his mind fixed on his goal. With his long hair flying in the wind and catching the light, his long and graceful legs, his proud and determined gaze, his hand gripping the beautifully curved weapon, the youngest prince of Mirkwood was the perfect representation of death.
Beautiful and bewitching, but nonetheless lethal.
He did not take him long to reach the place where the scream had come from and when he surveyed the scene in front of his eyes, his heart missed a beat. There, trapped against a tree, stood a man encircled by dozens of orcs. The man was a tall and strong one, whose dark locks, wet with sweat, fell into his eyes, hampering his vision of his assailants, but which he did not dare to push aside, lest he might lose sight of one of the dark beasts. He was clutching his side and Legolas' keen sight enabled him to see blood dripping through his trembling fingers.
But of the female there was no trace...
Legolas quickly scanned the area. Behind the tree where the tall human was caged, a cart was upset upon the heavy corpse of a horse, which had been stricken by many black arrows. By the presence of the cart and by the man's manner of holding his trembling weapon, he could guess that this one was no warrior, but more probably a farmer that had been unlucky enough to choose this doomed path.
The man was afraid. He could see the fear, almost feel it, in the narrowed eyes, in the dilated pupils and in the strangled breath. In the two seconds it took him to see the whole scene and to wrap his bow, he also noticed that, bit-by-bit, the strange circle was shrinking. The orcs were shouting screams of excitement and salivating in anticipation. They were wielding their weapons and the man could not suppress his frightened cry when a sword tore superficially at the flesh of his arm. The orcs did not intend to kill him immediately, but rather to play with him. The dark-haired human was well aware of their intentions and that was why he was so frightened. He knew he should expect no pity from the orcs. But at his scared cry echoed Legolas'.
Before any of the orcs was able to realize what had happened, two of them fell dead, killed by the elf's deadly arrows. The circle was suddenly shattered while ugly, hateful screams resounded. But the blond archer kept on aiming arrows to Sauron's minions.
Soon, he found himself the target of their attention. Forsaking their former prey, they ran toward the elf standing next to a tall oak. The man took advantage of the orcs' disorientation to escape from the trap and quickly ran away from them, passing between two of the startled, foul beasts. But the human possessed neither the elf's speed nor his agility. He did not make it: An orcish sword struck him before he had time to avoid the blow. He fell on the ground with a startled cry. The blond prince saw the whole scene and redoubled his efforts. He knew from experience that stomach wounds were the worse and that few had survived such grievous injuries.
When the orcs were too near to enable him to make powerful and deadly shoots, he had to forsake his bow for his twin knives. The strength of an archer was the distance lying between him and his foes that gave his arrows their lethal speed. Archers were the heart of an Elven army. Thanks to their piercing sight that found no match among other races, they rarely missed their targets. But they had to be swift and fast enough to knock their enemies down, because, as soon as their foes were too close, their bow became useless and they became vulnerable.
But this was no problem to the fair prince: like all the wood elves, he favoured his bow, but was nonetheless known for his ability to handle his knives. He had little love for heavier weapons that he found not fast enough. If his twin blades had the disadvantage in a direct face to face with someone handling a sword to bring him back more easily into a defensive stance, they were sure allies to his speed in short confrontations.
In a swift movement, which didn't lack elegance in spite of the dreadful circumstances, he unsheathed the two long and elven-crafted blades to wield them against his attackers. For one brief moment, the two knives shone brightly, the noble weapons reflecting the dawning light of Anar. They were a present from his father for his first coming of age that had marked the beginning of his training as a warrior. They were made from the purest material, forged and designed by the most skillful blacksmith in Mirkwood and on their mithril-made handles were engraved the arms of his family. The arms of the house of Oropher. But these magnificent and pure blades did not remain unsoiled for long. As soon as Legolas unsheathed them, he plunged the sharpened knives in the nearest orc's heart. With quick and precise arcs of one of his blades, he blocked the blows aimed at his flesh, never losing an occasion to shed the black blood of the orcs.
There were many grimacing and dark noisy figures surrounding him, some nearer than others and he could see, in their soulless eyes, the thirst for destruction, the need to kill. But he refused to be impressed. Without losing his Elven grace, he kept on sparring with all the skill he had acquired since that distant day when he had first hold a knife. His gestures were fast and efficient. He did not take the time to think about what he was doing. In battle, such behaviour was the origin of hesitations and faults that no one could allow. He was not preparing his blows, he was living them, letting his instinct relay his conscience. Years of training and numerous battles had taught him the detachment that was imperative if one wished not to lose such battles.
But where one orc fell, two more came. The situation was becoming desperate. There were more and more orcs and he had no way to escape them. He had to fight them or die. He could not flee. Not because of the man that was probably already dead, but rather because he would not turn his back to his assailants. His pride forbade him doing so. Turning his back to them would mean death and, if the blond prince was to enter Mandos Hall, he would rather face his killer.
Legolas winced when an orc's blade tore the tender flesh of his arm. He cursed himself mentally for his carelessness and swiftly sliced the throat of the one who had wounded him. The pain diffused itself slowly in his forearm, preventing him from moving it with the alacrity he was used to. That mistake was not going to make his situation better. The blond elf cursed himself once more for his own stupidity. Why should he be always trying to prove something? And what had he tried to prove? That he was stronger than a handful of orcs? Well... But, he was by no mean as strong as a whole company of them. Twenty orcs against a lone elf, the count was done quickly and made him feel very uncomfortable. In the end, he would lose this fight; there were too many of them and not enough of him.
His arms were aching and his whole body was asking for rest. How long had he been fighting now? It could have been hours or minutes. He had lost all notion of time. He did not know and did not care. This was going to end. He knew it. He felt it. His blades were no longer shining in the dawn but covered with black blood, both dried and fresh. Absently, mechanically taking advantage of an opening in the nearest orc's defence, he sent his foe's sword flying in the air above them and ended his life with a swift action.
Outside, he was still the perfect image of control, his hands never shaking, his gaze steady and clear, his face an unreadable mask of concentration. But, inside, his thoughts were in turmoil. He knew he should not be reacting like that. That kind of distraction too often led to death, but he could not help it. He had to bring this request. He had to achieve his duty. Mirkwood's destiny was lying down his shoulders. While he was battling here, how many of his fellows were dead? How many would fall until his return and the arrival of help? How many would die if he did not bring the message to the vale?
Help came from where he did not expect it. A piercing neigh dominated the groans and cries of the beasts, piercing the mist of the elf's thoughts, bringing him back to full awareness. The elf heard the heavy sound of hooves and many screams and groans from the orcs.
Naralod.
Legolas did not realize at first what had happened. He kept on fighting as if nothing had changed, but, soon, he saw that a part of his assailants had changed their target and that he had a little more space to act. A new energy seized his body and his spirit. What was his horse doing here? If the blond archer was ready to face his death, he refused to let his loyal companion share his fate. But he also knew that the white stallion had the same thought and wanted to save him, even if the price to pay was his own life. Between two blows, the fair prince dared to level his gaze to look for his friend and hope, which he had almost lost, flared anew in his heart.
The white purity of Naralod's coat was a pleasant contrast with the dark skins of the orcs, who could not approach him without being stricken by one of his sharpened hooves. The stallion was in a fury. Legolas had never seen his horse in such a rage and, if both their lives were not threatened, he would have laugh. Anger and perhaps hate were discernable in the huge bottomless eyes of the stallion. He was booting and kicking, hitting the orcs that tried to approach him. Seeing that his elf was not coming back, he had decided to seek him. When the white stallion had found out that the prince was in great danger, he had attacked, forsaken the supposed pacifism of his kin, honouring the oath sworn between the elves and their mounts. No one would come and harm his elf when he could prevent it. His muscular body was rising, according to his kicks, and his coat was wet with sweat. Rearing up then letting himself fall down, he crushed a lying orc's skull, his heavy hooves destroying easily the fragile bones. He repeated the same movements, kicking, booting, rearing up, and biting when he could, clearing himself a path to his elf, trying to protect him.
Legolas fought, parrying and striking, his will directed on one goal: staying alive. He was not aware that the number of Sauron's creatures was diminishing and that, bit-by-bit, thanks to his skills and to Naralod's help, the silence was beginning to overwhelm the forest. Soon, no more blows came and he stood, his knives ready to plunge into the heart of a treacherous foe, his body tensed and ready to fight, to fend off the next blow. But none came and Legolas allowed himself to relax and to look around him. He was standing alone in a field of death, his loyal companion next to him. The breath of the stallion was quickened and the black blood of the orcs soiled his once pure coat. The fair prince looked into the eyes of his horse and wordlessly thanked him for his help. Stroking the soft skin, he looked for injuries and was relieved to find only a few scratches that would heal soon and leaving no scar on the tender flesh.
Sheathing his twin knives after cleaning them on the grass, he felt a shudder running the length of his back. Black corpses were lying on the grass, soiling the ground. But his eyes stopped on a different form that reminded him why he had come to fight those beasts: the human.
In two steps, he found himself near the fallen man. Inspecting the still body, Legolas felt helpless. The man was near death and he could do nothing to alleviate his pain, he was too far gone to be brought back. The human's breath was the only sound that could be heard, quickened and unsteadied, betraying the excruciating pain he was in. His dirty hands were clenched upon his stomach and were soaked in blood. The elf lay the man on his back to enable him to breathe more easily. All he had done was in vain. Soon, the man would be dead, another life taken by the dark creatures of Sauron. His brown eyes were glazed and unfocused in pain, but when the fair archer touched him, he seemed to come back to awareness and let a weak moan escape. Closing in eyes in pain, he uttered a few words that were so soft that no one except an elf could have possibly understood what he had said.
"Erana... Run... Children... Take..."
Then he coughed, the movement bringing him more pain. His eyes became dull and distant. Blood trickled at the corner of his mouth, leaving a baleful trail upon his chin. On a last breath, he passed out, letting darkness and oblivion overwhelm him. But Legolas paid no further attention to the dead body. The dead ones did not need him, but the living... Contrary to many wood elves that had no use of it, Legolas was well versed in the use of the Common Tongue. He had understood what the man had said to him: the human had not been alone and, somewhere in that wild forest, were his wife and his children. An odd feeling spread in his chest. Around him, all was desolation, blood, death. Like a bad omen. Scanning the whole area, he found no trace of their presence. Helpless, he asked the trees, but no answer came, except songs of grief and sorrow of the tragedy that had happened.
Legolas was up in a second. A feeling of foreboding came to him. He sought on the grounds traces or signs of their passage. The Secondborn were not as light as the elves and left behind them heavy prints. But all he found were orcs' footprints. The young archer refused to give up so easily. There would be other orcs, hiding in the forest, heading toward his beloved Mirkwood. He had to find those children and that woman. It was his duty to bring them to safety since he had refused to fly and tried to help the man. As their father and husband was not alive to help them, he would do that.
Then, he saw them. Tracks. Made by the little feet of human children, and followed by large footprints left by Sauron's minions, heading away from the battle. His heart missed a beat in his chest. All he could do now was to hope that it was not too late. Cautiously and, as quickly as he could manage, he followed the footprints. They led him a few leagues away, to a cave where he guessed the woman and her children would have sought shelter and tried to hide from the orcs' sight. In spite of his horror of caverns, the elf entered the dark place, his bow ready to shoot an arrow. Odour of blood and death reached his narrowed nostrils and he knew, before even seeing, what he would find inside.
But he did not have to go very far into the invasive darkness. He found them, lying on the ground of the cave. It was too late. He was too late. The orcs had found them and taken their innocent lives. Obviously, the woman had tried to protect her two children with her body. Legolas looked at the once angelic faces, frozen by death in an expression of fear and total incomprehension. He felt a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm his senses and he contained it.
A sunbeam entered the cave, briefly shining on the woman's blond hair and the fair Prince found himself in front of another corpse. The body of a beloved she-elf covered in blood, but whose hair had kept its shininess. The body of someone he had failed to protect. A body of someone he had loved so much. A single tear escaped the archer's guarded eyes and he blinked, chasing away the painful memory. He should be strong. Memories were painful, but if he failed now, the future would be worse. He had to reach Imladris before his kin knew the same bitter end as this family. But before leaving, he had to bury these innocents.
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