Title & Chapter Number: Wish Upon The Stars (Part 2 of the 'Pilgrim' story arc) 16/?
Author(s): - Author's Index
Website: The Woodland Chronicles
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants are Tolkien's, not mine. I don't mean to steal them; I'm just borrowing them for my enjoyment.
Warnings: Lots of character development, not much sex. Sap and angst. Twincest
Betas: Jilly. Still the best.
Cast: Haldir, Legolas, Rúmil, Orophin, Celeborn, Galadriel, the entire Lothlórien bunch. Elladan/Thranduil/Elrohir are the only ones getting it on for now, though. There might be new pairings as the story develops.
Timeline: Third Age, approx. 440 years prior to the Fellowship.
Spoilers: Nope.
Summary: Legolas arrives in Lórien to begin his training as a warrior under Haldir's supervision. In the process, he discovers things about himself he'd never dreamed of. Haldir, in the meantime, finds that even one immortal is never too old to learn.
Notes:
Chapter 16 - The Battle Of Râd Nestad
Lórien
A long line of dark figures filed slowly, cautiously through the forest, moving like ominous shadows in the chilly dusk. Occasionally they spoke amongst themselves in their throaty language, keeping their rasping voices down. They were all in armour and they all carried the cruel, curved swords with the ragged double blade that was so typical of this race. The two Elves crouching low in the bushes, about eighty yards away, occasionally caught the malicious glint of an eye.
“Foul beasts,” one of them breathed with loathing in his voice, “they are not worthy to set even one toe in this forest.”
“I have seen enough,” the other said. “We must go back and inform the captain, and we must do it quickly.”
Staying low to the ground, the two Elves soundlessly crouched back until they were certain they would be invisible to the keenest orc eye; then they stood and ran between the trees on light feet.
~*~*~*~
Haldir’s patrol was sitting round the fire after a long day’s march along the northern border. It was February, and as always in the winter months, the evening fire was extra welcome. In addition, most Elves sat with their woollen winter cloaks wrapped around them, hoods up; and all were wearing fur-lined boots instead of the thinner ones they wore in warmer months. But no complaint was heard and the atmosphere was quite pleasant. They were used to the cold, hardened by experience. Legolas was used to winters in northern Mirkwood and found winter in Lórien quite mild. Of the four winters he’d seen come and go in Lórien, not one had brought even one flock of snow. Only cold rain. But tonight it was dry, although overcast. Legolas counted his blessings.
The warmth of the fire was soothing, and Legolas sat staring at the hypnotizing flames when Tavor and Seregon, the two Elves set on watch by Haldir earlier, emerged from between the trees, looking serious. Their faces instantly told the others that something was amiss.
“Tavor, Seregon, what have you seen?” Haldir asked them.
“An orc battalion, captain,” Seregon answered, “we saw them less than half a mile from here. They were heading east.”
“How many?”
“One hundred six-and-seventy, all armed with daggers and swords.”
“Bows?”
“Not many. Six or seven.”
“Quick,” Haldir said to the waiting group, “hide the packs in the bushes, extinguish the fire.” All leapt to their feet to obey, and after less than twenty seconds, they stood in the darkness, all traces of their camp erased or hidden. Legolas’s heart hammered in his chest like a wild thing; over the past nine months, all patrols had been uneventful, but clearly something was about to happen now, something very serious. No drill, but a very real fight. He clearly felt his body prepare itself for battle; his blood rushed, his heart rate went up, his head was surprisingly clear. He felt no fear. He had trained for this, trained hard, every day. Here was the chance to find out whether it had been enough.
“Tavor and Seregon,” Haldir said, “you have seen where they were heading, and how fast they were moving – where can we lay a trap?”
The two Elves looked at each other. “They will probably avoid the open space of Wolf Plateau,” Seregon said, “and pass it on the south side. “We can wait for them at Râd Nestad; we should be able to reach it before they do and we should have sufficient time to prepare.”
Râd Nestad was the only part of the forest were alfirin grew, a small, white and everlasting flower. According to legend, an elf-maiden of old times walked there. Entheiel was her name, and she had refused to marry or enter into any physical bond, instead she had dedicated her life to learning the art of healing, even though it was an art practised by males only. Yet she became the most gifted healer of her people. One day there was a terrible battle, and while the other healers looked after the wounded warriors brought to camp, Entheiel went out and walked over the battle field to see to the wounded and the dying in the field; and everywhere she saved a life or sat by a dying warrior to soothe his fear, alfirin grew later. That part of the forest soon was given the name Râd Nestad, Path of Healing.
Haldir pondered Seregon’s suggestion briefly. “Good,” he said. “You two, stay close to me. Others, follow in single file. Bows at the ready, swords close at hand. Swift and silent; follow me.”
Slipping between the trees into the darkness, Haldir took the lead, Tavor and Seregon following close behind. The others swiftly formed a line and followed, bows unslung. Legolas found himself between Rúmil and Orophin, and he wondered if they could hear the thudding of his heart.
They marched silently for almost ten minutes, keeping a steady pace. Sometimes Haldir halted briefly to consult with Tavor and Seregon, listen intently, sniff the air, use all his senses to determine their course. At length, Legolas became aware of vague flecks of white in the darkness around them; they had come to Râd Nestad.
Haldir halted again, spoke quietly with Tavor and Seregon and sent them along as scouts, in the direction the Orcs would come from. He then motioned for the others to come closer, and they gathered around him.
“Ôlnathron, take nine men with you and go that way,” Haldir instructed his first lieutenant softly. “Walk thirty steps and then spread. I want at least five bowlengths between each two of you, but keep each other in sight. Prepare to shoot when you hear Tavor’s signal. I will have my men take out the archers first; that will be my sign for you to come in.”
“Yes, cáno-nya,” Ôlnathron said. They briefly clasped each other’s shoulders. Ôlnathron then quickly selected nine warriors and set off with them, as Haldir had ordered him.
Haldir eyed the remaining Elves. “You come with me,” he said, and he retreated with them in the opposite direction, their bodies merging with the shadows.
“You heard what I said,” he told them, “it’s important that we slay their archers first. Our scouts said there are about seven of them, so if all goes according to plan, they will be without archers before they know what’s happening. After that, take out as many as you can before you switch to the sword. And remember, stay close to the others; we’re in the minority and we don’t want to be scattered. If you do find yourself separated and are in need of help, you know the signal.”
All nodded silently.
“Wait for my signal to release your arrows. Now spread,” Haldir said then, and they obeyed, all finding a tree to hide behind. Haldir grasped Legolas’s shoulder.
“You are ready.” It was a statement, not a question. Legolas nodded, wide-eyed.
“Stay as close to me as you can, Greenleaf,” Haldir said. “I want you in my sight at all times.”
“Yes, captain,” Legolas breathed.
They broke apart and took position behind a tree like the others, several meters between them. A complete silence fell as all waited for the signal from the scouts, all elven senses on edge. Legolas leaned against the tree, trying to command his body to be calm. The silence he was listening to was interwoven with the frantic beats of his heart, still drumming in his ears. The bark was cool against his cheek.
Minutes glided by. That was not good; it gave him far too much opportunity to think. So this was what he had been preparing himself for, then. Why had he wanted this? Oh, yes: for the good cause. Learn to fight, for the good cause. For Mirkwood. Lórien. Middle-earth. Shut down every emotion. Smother every doubt. Spill blood. Kill. Become a murderer. Take a life, dozens, hundreds of them, it doesn’t matter. But fight. To the death. You will be praised for it.
He heard someone breathing hard and fast, and realized it was himself he was hearing. Haldir was looking at him. Why was that, why was he looking like that? He was all right, Haldir shouldn’t be concerned. Legolas’s fingers were hurting and he realized that he was clenching his hands too tightly around his bow.
This was taking far too long. Had Haldir made a wrong decision? Had the Orcs taken another route? For a moment, Legolas felt a flash of hope; a childish hope that there would be no confrontation tonight. Then he silently reprimanded himself, recalling the words Haldir had spoken when admitting Legolas to the patrol:
*Whether you are mentally prepared, you will have to prove in the field...*
Well, if he wanted to prove that, this was the opportunity. He hugged his bow more firmly to his chest and concentrated on the fight nigh at hand. Slay their archers first... take out as many as you can... stay close... wait for my signal...
Then, after what seemed an Age of waiting, the faint hooting of an owl. Tavor’s signal. Haldir, peeking out from his hiding-place, gave a sign with his hand; Legolas and the others soundlessly produced their first arrow, which they fitted to the string. Legolas noticed that his hands were slippery, and he peered into the darkness with puckered eyes. Where in the name of Ilúvatar were those beasts? They had to be close, but he perceived no movement at all and it was unnerving.
He heard them before he saw them. Snapping twigs, grunting noises, the occasional soft clink of metal. They were still moving steadily eastward, passing through Râd Nestad and walking straight into the trap the patrol had set for them. Legolas saw dark, slightly hunched figures, about twenty yards in front of him. And he smelled them now, too; it was a foul stench, a stench that he hated.
Another sign from Haldir and the elven warriors drew as quietly as possible, taking aim. The Orcs passed slowly, unaware of their danger... for now. Legolas’s eyes searched frantically for the archers in the group, counting them. Seregon had been right; there were seven of them. The tip of Legolas’s arrow slowly followed the last archer in the line; his elven comrades on his right would fell the others. Fate had determined that this black creature with a primitive bow in his clawy hands would be Legolas’s first victim... the first living target he had ever fired at.
The Orcs were still filing by, undisturbed, and still Haldir made no move. Legolas’s arms started to ache, his fingers too. A bead of sweat, icy cold, slid down the side of his face as he maintained his aim at the orc archer. Aim for the head, Haldir had told him. Always aim for the head. Don’t waste time and arrows on their chestplate. Through the head ensures the swiftest death; it’s the least we can do for those wretched creatures.
The tip of Legolas’s arrow was quivering slightly. Was it fatigue or something else? The waiting was maddening; it was taking too long...
But there it was: the signal, Haldir moving his hand down. Even as Legolas’s mind screamed no, his fingers on the bowstring released the arrow on their own accord, sending it on its way. A split-second later, seven Orcs fell dead; all elven arrows had hit their mark, Legolas’s finding the soft spot behind the ear and piercing the Orc’s skull.
The quiet night then exploded in a soul-shattering tumult. Screams pierced the air, those of the dying and those of the enraged, and it was a sound that froze Legolas’s blood and had him stock-still on his spot for a moment, a moment in which he was struggling with the urge to cover his ears with his hands and drop to the ground.
Before the Orcs had time to recover from the sudden assault and the death of their comrades, more fell as they were being fired at from two sides. The leader of the battalion roared menacingly and raised his sword, then came charging at Haldir and his group of warriors, followed by numbers of his men. Others charged in the opposite direction, where Ôlnathron and his men were hiding.
Legolas still stood as if cemented to the ground, but then he realized that the others were firing arrows continuously. Orcs fell, others escaped the showers of arrows so far and approached the group of Elves with amazing speed, roaring with anger.
Close to Legolas, Haldir stood firing arrow after arrow with deadly precision. His face was hard and cold with concentration and restrained loathing. Legolas had never seen him like that.
“Legolas!!” Haldir shouted, yanking another arrow from his quiver and notching and releasing it in the same second. “Move!”
Legolas started, and his arms instantly moved on their own accord, reaching back for an arrow, bending, aiming, shooting; no time to think. Another three Orcs painted the ground with their blood, each clutching at an arrow from Legolas’s quiver. More Orcs came, leaping over their comrades’ bodies, determined to kill those responsible and die in the attempt if necessary. They were close now; too close. Legolas lowered his bow and reached his right hand for his sword even as Haldir shouted the command:
“Swords!!”
Legolas grabbed the hilt of his sword firmly and was about to yank the blade from its scabbard when his eyes met those of the Orc that came charging right in his direction, and a dark, cold shadow crept into his heart, made him shiver.
As if he’d just tumbled into a bad dream, his mind revisited the last time he’d seen eyes like these, filled with cruelty and hate. They had belonged to a creature of the same species, with a sickly grey skin and pointy yellow teeth, revealed by a horrifying grin of black lips. Legolas saw that ugly creature standing over a motionless figure on the ground. A woman wearing a familiar green dress, the long blond hair no longer shiny and well-groomed, but mussy and streaked with blood. The other Orcs stood nearby, restraining their equally despicable riding animals, the wolf-like wargs, who were growling impatiently at the scent of blood. The Orcs would probably release them once their leader had had his fun. He had a double-edged sword in his hand, its blade dark with blood, and he still stood wiping it on his rag-clad leg as he turned around to face the Elves arriving at the scene in haste. That was when Legolas first saw those eyes.
And now he saw them again, both in his memory and in front of him; they were not the same, and yet so alike that Legolas stood as if paralyzed. The Orc that came charging towards him saw his hesitation, the turmoil on the Elf’s face, and grinned cruelly, mockingly. He let out a challenging shriek and raised his sword. Orcs harboured a deep contempt toward any friendly creature, but toward Elves more than any other, and he knew he would thoroughly enjoy slicing that fair throat open. His eyes glinted with morbid pleasure as he swung his arm back to deliver the blow.
It was then that Legolas’s vision went red.
~*~*~*~
Haldir planted his foot on a dead Orc’s chest and pulled his knife from the beast’s throat, swiftly wiping the blade on the filthy sleeve before standing up and quickly inspecting the scene. Many Orcs lay dead and the clamour of battle was gradually fading, but there were still fights going on and there were grunting noises and clashes of steel against steel. Was everyone still standing? Haldir’s eyes went over the battle field as he counted blond heads.
Seeing that one of his men was in serious trouble against three Orcs had led him away from Legolas’s side earlier. Something that could happen in the heat of battle, but Haldir turned on his heel and set off in search of his recruit, mentally reprimanding himself for letting Legolas out of his sight in spite of his resolution to keep a close eye on him, especially during the first battle.
“Excellent, excellent, excellent,” he murmured to himself as he ran, leaping over bodies and searching for Legolas’s face among the fighting warriors. At least there were no Elves among the corpses and he silently thanked the Valar for that.
But Legolas. Where in the name of Ilúvatar was he? And he hadn’t seen Ercirion yet, either. Suddenly he realized that his entire face was wet and that the clouds, that had been filling the sky all day, were sending rain down now; a sad, cold drizzle. But Haldir forgot about the rain again immediately after taking notice, for he discerned two grey figures in the gloom, engaged in what appeared to be a heated fight with five or six Orcs.
Haldir, relieved to have found his two lost sheep – alive –, sprinted to their aid, only to come to an abrupt halt again. For even as he arrived at the scene, Ercirion lost his battle. He was not fighting with his sword, Haldir quickly registered, but with two knives that were not his own. Haldir did recognize them, though, for they were Legolas’s and he had given them to the Prince himself. Ercirion, assaulted by two Orcs at the same time, staggered backwards and lost his balance. Legolas, taking notice, leapt away from his own opponents and took the knives from Ercirion, who had a bleeding head wound and looked very pale. Then he turned to Ercirion’s assailants and raised one hand with a knife in it. Haldir had had the same idea; his knife already sliced the air, Legolas’s followed a split-second later and the two Orcs fell, their throats pierced.
Three Orcs were left, and they charged at Legolas, who stuck his remaining knife behind his belt and bent over one of the dead Orcs, yanking the sword from the contorted claw. When he stood up and turned to his opponents, Haldir got a first good look at him and his breath hitched in his throat. There was a contempt and a hatred on Legolas’s face that Haldir had never expected to see there; it consumed his every feature and made him almost unrecognizable. He looked like the Legolas they had all seen after Ruigaul’s unfortunate remark, only even more terrifying and clearly not approachable this time. As he beheld this Elf, Haldir knew it was not Legolas... and yet it was. And he thought he understood very well what had brought Legolas in this state.
As he turned, there was another discovery that froze Haldir’s blood. The right side of Legolas’s uniform – tunic, jerkin, leggings and all – was soaked with blood, and even as he watched, Haldir could see it seeping from a wound above the hip.
A thought arose in Haldir’s head; Legolas was in no condition to take on three Orcs at the same time! He opened his mouth to shout and draw the Orcs’ attention to him instead, but shut it again as Legolas made his next move. Holding two swords in his hands now – his own, and that of the Orc –, Legolas crossed the blades in front of his chest, blocking the swing the foremost Orc aimed at him. An ear-ringing clang sounded. Thrown off-balance by the shock, the Orc staggered, and Legolas took advantage of the moment by thrusting the orc sword forcefully into his opponent’s chest, going straight through the armour. Haldir heard the sickening sound of splintering ribs.
Surprised by this display of strength and rage from the slender Elf, the two others hesitated. Legolas, however, did not. He clenched both hands firmly around the hilt of his sword and did a mighty swing, which decapitated the one that stood closest to him. Before the head even hit the ground, Legolas turned to the third, and last Orc. Something odd happened then; Haldir could have sworn they looked each other in the eye for a moment, the Elf and the Orc, both unmoving.
Legolas grinned then, but it was a humourless, cruel grin and it gave Haldir the shivers.
“Scared, are you?” Legolas said in a cold voice. “Good.” And he lifted his sword.
The Orc, giving in to his instinct, turned and fled. Legolas yanked his knife from behind his belt and hurled it at his fleeing opponent, and it embedded itself in the flesh of the muscled leg, just above the knee. Clutching at it, the Orc attempted to hobble on, but Legolas jumped at him and they both tumbled to the ground, Legolas landing on top of the other. Sitting astride him, he retrieved the knife with a careless pull, eliciting a shriek from the Orc.
Haldir watched in horror and astonishment how Legolas bent forward, laying one hand atop the Orc’s head and pressing it to the ground. He then appeared to whisper something into the beast’s ear. When done speaking, he grasped the small amount of thin hair on the Orc’s head and yanked it back; the next moment, he’d sliced its throat.
Haldir stared. Legolas rose to his feet and stepped away from the body, slowly turning. His breathing went fast, shallow, and ragged. His face and hair were filthy, there was blood and dirt all over him. His terrifying demeanour was gliding off him like a discarded veil. The liquid fire in his eyes flickered and disappeared, the snarl fell from his lips and he suddenly looked very tired. Hands reached for the wound in his side, in a powerless effort to staunch the bleeding. His face contorted and he gasped in pain, staggering as the strength his rage had temporarily given him, poured from him together with his blood.
Willing his feet to move, Haldir strode at him and caught him just as he was about to collapse. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, Haldir whistled hard, the whistle that would call his underofficers to him. Ôlnathron and Rúmil appeared within thirty second at most; both filthy, but without injuries. They stared in shock at the bleeding, barely conscious Legolas in Haldir’s arms.
“Ôlnathron,” Haldir said urgently, “bring Legolas to the nearest talan. Clean his wound with water and dab it with a cloth soaked in an alfirin extract. Do whatever you can to staunch the bleeding, he has already lost much blood; try to keep him conscious, and keep him warm!”
“Yes, captain,” Ôlnathron said, and he took Legolas from Haldir, lifting him to his chest quite easily.
“I will come to see him myself as soon as I can,” Haldir said. He turned to Rúmil. “Come with me.”
They walked over to Ercirion and knelt by his side. His head wound was seeping blood, but he was conscious and only had a headache. Haldir managed a smile, stroking a hand over the Elf’s brow, relieved. “You’ll be fine.”
To Rúmil he said, “You will go with Ôlnathron and support Ercirion.”
“Yes, captain,” Rúmil said as he helped a shaky Ercirion stand.
After the small group had disappeared between the trees, Ôlnathron carrying Legolas and Ercirion stumbling with one arm draped over Rúmil’s shoulders, Haldir inspected the situation at the scene. All Orcs were dead; some had tried to escape, but they had run straight into the waiting arms of Tavor and Seregon, the scouts. Apart from a few minor injuries, all Elves were sound, and Haldir silently said a prayer of thanks.
Then there was the unpleasant task of digging a hole in the ground, piling the bodies in it and burning them. Haldir let a couple of Elves search the ground to retrieve all the weapons; those belonging to the Orcs went in the fire; the elven weapons, among which Legolas’s knives and sword, would be returned to their owners. It was all done in silence and with set faces, and all were thinking the same thing; they had not been able to keep Legolas from getting hurt during the very first confrontation, and they knew that this weighed especially heavy on Haldir. It showed on his face, too. All were anxious to get this over with as quickly as possible and get to the talan, to find out how severe Legolas’s injury was.
When the fire was out, Haldir led his men back to where their camp had been, to retrieve the packs; after that, they marched straight to the border talan where the others were. There still wasn’t much talking, and they walked silent and fast.
When at length they arrived, Haldir whistled again and someone let a rope ladder down.
“Stay here for a moment,” Haldir told the Elves and he began to ascend. He was not sure what he would find, and Legolas probably didn’t need the entire patrol interrogating him. Upstairs, he was welcomed by Rúmil. Ercirion lay huddled under a blanket, and Haldir guessed that behind the moveable screen, Ôlnathron was tending to Legolas.
“We put him behind the screen,” Rúmil explained, “because we figured that he would need the privacy once the others arrived.”
“Good,” Haldir nodded. “How is he?”
“Not as bad as it looked, physically,” Rúmil said. “The wound has been cleaned and treated, as you said, and the bleeding has almost stopped. It’s an ugly gash, but no internal damage was done. How long did he go on fighting with that wound?”
“I’m not sure,” Haldir said. “Too long, probably, but what else could he do?”
“Well,” Rúmil said softly, “that was one baptism of fire for our recruit.”
“It sure was.” Haldir remembered the change that had taken place in Legolas while fighting and sighed.
“He seemed quite battered,” Rúmil said. “A bit turned within himself, and a bit eye-shy. He kept asking for you, though. He will probably feel better when he sees you.”
Haldir nodded. “And Ercirion?”
“A splitting headache,” Rúmil said, “he’s sleeping it off right now. For the rest he’s fine.”
Haldir made for the private space behind the screen. “Would you please tell the others they can come up?” he asked Rúmil. “But quietly.”
“I will,” Rúmil said. “Haldir?”
Haldir turned.
“Did something happen?”
Haldir sighed. “A memory,” he said, and disappeared behind the screen.
~*~*~*~
cáno-nya: ‘my commander’ in Quenya
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