Chapter 9: Death’s Twilight Kingdom

A/N: As always, I love those reviews! Bonus points if anyone comes up with the poem from which I stole this chapter’s title ; )

“Archers!” Legolas yelled furiously. “Do not let them escape! Archers!” The prince fired repeatedly into the fleeing group of goblins before them. After Legolas and his elves had joined Captain Rochiron’s warriors, the battle had ended quickly. In their terror, the orcs had abandoned all semblance of coordination and begun to break up their line, either dispersing helter-skelter or huddling together in fear. Now, the largest group of the enemy had united and was running up the foothills, back over the Mountains.

“They are drawing out of range, Captain,” Galadthor shouted beside Legolas. “Shall we pursue?”

The prince shook his head as he surveyed the aftermath of the battle around him. The sun had risen in the sky, and the day was mild. In the relative silence after the goblin’s retreat, Legolas’s keen ears discerned the moans of the wounded and the final breaths of the dying. The foothills were littered with bodies. Goblin carcasses had begun to reek as their black blood seeped into the ground. Legolas felt tightness in his chest as his eyes picked out elven warriors, lying motionless. The surviving warriors had begun to group around the prince as the last goblin fled out of sight across the peaks.

Shouldering his bow, Legolas whistled for the elves to gather, hoping that more would materialize at his command than had already appeared. He was rewarded with the majority of the former prisoners, but few among Hadron’s group. Hadron himself approached the prince, despite bleeding copiously from his side.

“My Captain and Prince,” Hadron said as he bowed before Legolas.

“Rise, warrior of the Woodland Realm,” Legolas replied warmly. “Your bravery and leadership this day shall not remain unknown, Hadron Magoldirion!”

Hadron’s eyes shone with pride and gratitude. “Your orders, Captain?” he asked gravely.

“Tend to your wounds, Hadron Spear-Elf!” Legolas commanded gently. “Then will you be of service.” Legolas turned as he counted the number of elves he had available, especially those he knew to be healers. The prince narrowed his eyes, as he did not locate Erethion among the group. However, Legolas spotted two healers of the Southern Company and quickly formed a small unit of medics to tend the wounded.

“Lieutenant Súlinnor.” Legolas briefly examined the ebullient elf, who looked none the worse for his recent fight. “Take half the elves here with you to locate and tend the wounded. Lieutenant Calethor,” the prince continued as he turned toward his friend. “Take half the remaining elves and seek a place of refuge for this night. I doubt we will be able to traverse the peaks with so many out of action.” Legolas scanned the sky above, noting that the sun had almost reached its apex. “I know not if the goblins’ former camp is the most defendable position,” he said to Calethor. “Perhaps a cave would serve our purpose?”

The dark-haired elf chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “I know not if there are any caves below the Mountains…but we shall scout the terrain,” he concluded. “The number of wounded and able-bodied warriors will affect our choice,” he observed to Legolas alone.

Nodding, the prince turned his attention back to the group of warriors. “The remaining elves shall come with me,” Legolas ordered. “We shall bury the dead.” He gestured to Súlinnor and Calethor, who immediately began dividing the group according to the prince’s instruction.  

As Legolas had hoped, the two lieutenants had chosen all the elves with even the smallest wounds, leaving the prince with the most able-bodied warriors. “We will bury the slain under the trees,” Legolas said softly to his group. “The goblins we will burn,” he concluded harshly.

With grim eyes, the prince and his band fanned out among the battlefield. They began piling the bodies of the orcs, allowing Súlinnor and the healers to attend first to the wounded. Calethor and his group had vanished from the field, and Legolas allowed himself to hope that a secret hiding place had been discovered. The sun rose in the sky as the elves worked.

As Legolas bent to shift the stinking carcass of a goblin, he caught a soft moan from beneath the corpse. The prince knelt and with more gentleness than was his wont, he rolled the orc’s body to the side, to reveal the trembling form of Esgaldir. The elf’s skin was white and his entire body shook in pain from an enormous gash from the bottom of his throat to his abdomen. Legolas grimaced, as the wound was so deep that Esgaldir’s organs lay partially exposed.

Upon sighting the prince, Esgaldir’s eyes had widened and his mouth moved in a fruitless effort to speak.

“Be still,” Legolas soothed as he ripped his tunic and attempted the staunch the flow of blood. The prince looked wildly about, hoping to spot one of the healers in the vicinity. Before he could signal another elf, Legolas felt blood on his hands and turned to examine the piece of tunic, which was completely soaked.

The light in Esgaldir’s eyes had begun to fade, and Legolas felt his own eyes grow moist as the prince struggled against that which he could not control.

“Captain.” The word was moaned so faintly that Legolas at first believed he had imagined it.

The prince leaned in closely against the face of his fellow warrior, all the while pressing his hands against the fatal wound. “Your courage will not be forgotten, warrior of the Woodland Realm,” Legolas reassured.

Esgaldir pressed his eyes shut, but opened them quickly and looked at the prince with desperate urgency. “The Captain…fell,” he whispered.

Legolas met the tortured gaze calmly. “He was not slain, Esgaldir. Be at peace—”

The prince was surprised by the strength of the dying elf as Esgaldir grasped Legolas’s wrist. “He fell!” the elf rasped. “I could not…save him.”

Unwilling to prolong Esgaldir’s agony, Legolas could only nod. “You fought bravely,” the prince soothed.

Tears of frustration gathered in the fallen warrior’s eyes, and the prince felt his own chest constrict with the guilt that he had caused them. “Find him…tell him.” Esgaldir’s grip slackened and his hand slid slowly upon his maimed chest.

“Tell the Captain you tried to save him,” Legolas repeated dumbly, his mind spinning to make sense of the words he was hearing.

“Honor,” Esgaldir breathed, and with this last breath, his body shuddered and was still.

Legolas stared into the now dim eyes for a long moment before the prince realized that his hands were still pressed against Esgaldir’s chest. Tears trailed down the sweat and blood on the prince’s face as Legolas repeated that single word to himself: honor. To die without one’s honor…worse yet, to die supposing one was bereft of honor… Legolas closed his eyes. This should not be.

The prince examined his stained hands and attempted to wipe the blood on the grass. He felt sudden anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. Doubt—to doubt one’s honor—even at the moment of death. Must the Shadow pervade every moment of life? Were they never to be free? Legolas trembled in rage as he wrapped Esgaldir’s body in the warrior’s cloak. Sliding the elf’s eyelids shut, Legolas gathered the body in his arms and made for the forest’s edge.

As he approached the tree line, he noticed Galadthor already at work digging a grave. Lying beside the gravesite was the body of Feron. Legolas allowed his tears to flow freely for the young elf, whose merry voice would never again admire the stars. The prince gently placed Esgaldir’s body next to his fallen comrade and began to work beside Galadthor.

“Captain,” the veteran growled and interrupted the prince’s digging with a raised hand. “Let me dig.”

Legolas surveyed the rigid form of the elf before him. Galadthor’s eyes blazed in determination and the set of his chin indicated he would brave his captain’s displeasure. Gravely, Legolas nodded as he belatedly recalled that Feron had been the son of Galadthor’s daughter.

Leaving the grieving warrior to his task, Legolas walked in the direction of the goblin’s former camp, at which point he discerned that a fire had been lit. As he approached the camp, the prince realized that Súlinnor and his elves had brought the wounded to this locale. He spotted Erethion in the group, and thanked the Valar that the healer had been spared. Legolas entered the camp and was immediately accosted by Súlinnor.

“Captain,” the elf saluted briskly. “We have found a dozen elves, only two of whom are too injured to fight. The others are being tended.”

“A dozen…” Legolas trailed off as he summed the number of warriors in his mind. “Not enough, Lieutenant,” the prince concluded grimly.

“We are still searching,” Súlinnor assured.

Legolas nodded absently as he began walking about the camp. He greeted the warriors who saluted him, noting names, wounds, and mentally tallying who were still missing. The prince glanced upwards, observing that the afternoon sun was waning. With a parting glance at the gathered elves, Legolas made toward the foothills as he once again began his search.

oooo

The sun had finished setting when Girithron abandoned his post by the riverbank. He whistled shrilly and nine fully armed elves presented themselves before him, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

“They did not signal,” the Crown Prince began without preamble. “The course of action is clear. We will travel through the night.” He examined the elves before him critically, but his orders were met without surprise. “Stay alert, for we know not the place nor the hour in which our enemy will strike. We move with stealth,” he cautioned, “for we will most likely be outnumbered.” Girithron rubbed the handle of his knife as he scanned the southern horizon for the last time. “Move out,” he finally commanded.  

Suddenly, the sound of a desperately galloping horse accosted the prince’s hearing. Girithron turned his head sharply northward and held his hand to stay his warriors’ advance. He need not have done so, however, as every elf heard the noise and wondered at what it could portend. The elves waited in tense silence as the rider approached and finally broke through the tree cover in a pounding explosion of broken leaves and shattered twigs.

“My lord Girithron!” The rider shouted breathlessly. “Hold!”

“Raenlas!” Girithron recognized the messenger and ran to the horse and rider. The beast trembled and lather coated its flanks. Raenlas dismounted quickly, soothing the tired animal with his hands as his eyes frantically sought the Crown Prince’s gaze.

“We are under attack, my lord! A horde of goblins has attacked the Western Company barely a day’s march from the settlement. Prince Hananuir has called all to the defense and bids you journey with most urgent speed to his aid!”

Girithron paled and felt his being somehow devoid of substance. He turned away from Raenlas’s beseeching gaze and swept his eyes over the now shocked countenances of his warriors. He found himself walking toward the river, though he could account for no conscious thought behind his actions.

“My lord Girithron?” Raenlas trailed off uncertainly.

The Crown Prince did not hear nor did he mark the glances trained in his direction. In his mind, he heard echoes of words he could not comprehend: “attack,” “goblins,” “settlement,” “Hananuir,” “aid,” but the ones that reverberated most painfully were “barely a day’s march.” Girithron lost his gaze in the middle distance as he waded through centuries of memories, seeking to find another instance in which the palace-settlement had been in such grave danger. But the prince could not remember for never before had the elves been threatened so close to their last refuge. Ever had they remained one step ahead of their foes, at Amon Lanc, at the Emyn Duir, always had the elves fled before their last escape could be cut off. Girithron knew that if the goblins broke through the defenses, there would be no mercy for the she-elves and the elflings within the palace.  

The prince turned and contemplated the meager group of warriors under his command. What was he expected to achieve with so few? His shoulders sagged in despair. And what of his King, his father, upon his return, would there be none but corpses to greet him? Girithron turned his head southwards. What of Legolas, Rochiron, and the warriors of the Southern Company? Did they await his arrival with desperate need?

“My lord.” Málchanar, the veteran, bowed respectfully. “We are ready to follow you.”

Girithron felt his heart beating and blood coursing through his veins. He felt the fierce loyalty of his warriors steadying his wavering feet and strengthening his trembling arm. He seemed to grow taller before them, every inch a prince and lord of the house of Oropher. With a last glance toward the south, Girithron turned his whole body north. “To battle,” he proclaimed with fire burning in his eyes. “Raenlas.” He pinned the warrior with a look. “Leave the horse for he will find his way back. You journey with us now.”

Raenlas bowed low and joined the other warriors taking their places in the boats.

The evening was overcast, and a sharp wind began to blow, whipping the warriors’ braids about their faces. Standing at the head of the first boat, Girithron felt the fury of the wind mimicking his own wrath. The dark creatures of Sauron had strayed too far in their advance, had crossed the threshold. The Crown Prince experienced a savage thrill shiver through his entire body. The goblins would pay dearly for their audacity.

“Forward!” Girithron cried, and the elves departed.

oooo

“Celegnir, how many?” Legolas demanded as he intercepted an elf from the Southern Company now working to bury the dead.

The elf cast his eyes down as he replied, “We have laid ten to rest, my lord. Captain Rochiron was not among them,” Celegnir added softly.

Legolas frowned as he reconciled this last figure with the recent numbers Súlinnor had imparted to him moments ago at the goblin’s former camp. “We are missing three warriors, including the Captain,” he informed the other elf shortly. “Night will soon be upon us,” he continued. “Celegnir, go to Lieutenant Súlinnor and tell him I want every able-bodied elf not tending the wounded to search the battlefield. Make haste before the light is gone!”

Celegnir bowed and fled on his errand. Legolas exhaled slowly, feeling his body groan with stiffness and the injury at his back throb faintly. He scanned the mounds of goblin carcasses scattered about the fields and grimaced as the acrid smell of their burning assailed his nostrils. The prince cursed as his foot caught upon an orcish scimitar discarded in the grass. Legolas took up the weapon and, with unusual violence, thrust it into the body of an orc lying in his path. The prince drew breath in his lungs to yell when a nearby voice interrupted his rage.

“We have found refuge.” Calethor materialized and regarded Legolas evenly. “We have also found the body of Tulustor,” the dark-haired elf continued quietly. “It appears he was running away from the battle.”

Legolas met the eyes of his friend and noted exhaustion in his bearing. “He will be buried apart,” the prince stated brusquely. “What have you found?”

“’Tis not quite a cave, but rather a rocky overhang that backs directly to the Mountains. The walls are sheer and form a circle, so that the only access is through a narrow path from the eastern foothills. We would spot any foe upon the cliffs before they could reach us,” Calethor asserted. “There is a spring within the circle, and long may we defend it should the need arise.”

“Then we shall remove thither with all speed,” Legolas said appreciatively at his friend’s success. “With haste, you may yet intercept Celegnir with my orders to Súlinnor. The command has changed; our priority is to retreat to this safe hold before nightfall.”

“Would you not give the order yourself, Captain?” Calethor asked with his particular tone of respectful challenge.

Legolas turned away from his friend, and his eyes pierced the shadows gathering around the foothills before him. “I am otherwise occupied,” he said shortly.

The dark-haired elf was so long silent that Legolas wondered and finally turned toward his friend. “Legolas, they look to you for command,” Calethor whispered softly. “I will aid your search once the others are dispatched.”

The prince trembled slightly at the warmth in the eyes of his friend. Suddenly, Legolas felt shame in his heart at his prideful selfishness. He was not the only one grieving this day nor was he the only one concerned for the whereabouts of the missing Captain. He had brushed aside the empathy directed toward himself earlier in the day—from Tuilinnor, Súlinnor, Hadron, and now, his closest friend. Mentally berating himself for his shameful conduct, Legolas met Calethor’s gaze. “Forgive me, mellon nín.”

Calethor’s eyes brightened though he did not smile. “There is naught to forgive, your highness.”

Legolas felt his heart grow lighter as his friend addressed him by that title which no others used. “Come, Lieutenant,” the prince stated formally. “With speed, we may yet meet with Celegnir.”

The two friends began a brisk walk, but increased their pace as their eyes caught sight of Celegnir arriving at the former goblin camp. Legolas and Calethor ran into the camp, surprising several elves, just as Súlinnor approached Celegnir.

“Hold Celegnir!” Legolas commanded as he paused to catch his breath before the astounded elves.

“My lord, I made all haste to obey—” Celegnir sputtered, but the prince cut him short with a raised hand.

“Peace, I doubt not your obedience. Nay, my orders have changed and to prevent confusion, I have come hither to explain.” Legolas spoke loudly, and several elves drew around him in a circle to hear his commands. From the edge of the forest, Galadthor and Barahad joined the group, with the wooden shovels of their former labors in their grasps. The prince quickly described the refuge and outlined his command that the elves should remove to that locale.

“Captain Legolas,” Gilbor addressed the prince respectfully. “What of our missing comrades? Are we not to mourn the slain?”

Legolas felt weariness bear down upon him. It was true that he had not divulged the names of the fallen to the others. Indeed, the prince suspected that only rumors had been available to those too wounded to leave the camp. Legolas scanned the anxious faces before him and realized that he had pushed away his warriors’ need to grieve when he had buried his own sorrow. The prince marveled a second time at his selfishness that day. The silence in the camp was palpable, and Legolas endured the stares of over two-score elves with poise.

“Brother warriors,” he began in a voice just loud enough for all to hear. “I seek not to dismiss your sorrow nor diminish the valor of our fallen comrades. But night falls upon us swiftly, and prudence urges us to seek shelter. It is not fitting that our brethren be remembered in the darkness, but rather, with light shall we sing of their deeds. At dawn shall we gather here by the mounds of the fallen and do justice to their memory! Now, we must hasten to our refuge, and the strong must aid the wounded.” Legolas felt his spirits rising with the trust he read in the eyes of his warriors. “Ere we depart, I will ease your hearts and relate who lies buried yonder.” Legolas closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment before speaking again. With a steady voice, he named each warrior who had fallen in the battle during the day. The warriors listened quietly, though tears flowed freely. After the last name, there was a deep silence among the elves.

Calethor was the first to speak as he indicated the precise location of the overhang. He beckoned Tuilinnor forward to lead the others, since it had been this elf that had discovered the refuge. In silence, the elves began to organize themselves for departure, and Legolas was pleased to note that few were too wounded to walk unaided. Some litters had been constructed over the course of the afternoon, though far fewer than the prince had suspected would be needed.

“Captain,” Súlinnor spoke rapidly in a low voice, and tear-marks stained his cheeks. “There are still two missing: Belegir and Captain Rochiron. Shall we not continue the search?” Anxiety was writ large upon Súlinnor’s usually merry face.

“Peace, Lieutenant,” Legolas replied. “Calethor and I will take a few elves with us to the field. We shall not abandon them.”

“Captain.” Hadron strode over to the prince with the barest limp in his stride. “Let me aid you, please. Belegir is dear to me.”

Shaking his head, Legolas regarded the doughty warrior. “I fear your wounds pain you still, Hadron Spear-Elf. Seek rest and others will aid me.”

The valiant elf would not be dissuaded, and after several exchanges, Legolas was pleased to accept his services. Galadthor also volunteered his aid, and before long the four elves were making ready to part from the others.

Súlinnor was repeating his assurances that Legolas would find everything organized upon his return when the prince heard his name being called by a thin voice on the ground. Turning on his heel, Legolas spotted the pale form of Captain Maeglir being shifted onto a litter. Erethion hovered nearby, but the effects of the poison seemed to be receding.

“Captain Maeglir,” Legolas greeted the elf warmly as he knelt beside the litter. “I am gladdened to meet you again under the stars.”

Maeglir smiled weakly. “I am thankful that such a meeting is possible, my prince.” The elf frowned with concern as he regarded Legolas. “But Rochiron—”

“We will find him,” Legolas asserted with more confidence than he felt.

“He has been my friend for years uncounted,” Maeglir said softly. “He has saved my life many times.”

The prince gripped Maeglir’s shoulder in reassurance and rose to leave.

“Prince Legolas,” the wounded Captain said sternly. He eyed the prince closely as Legolas knelt again. “If you should…he told me once that he wishes his body to be burned.”

Legolas stared in bewilderment. “Such practices are only wrought upon our enemies,” the prince finally declared. “I could not.”

“Custom matters not,” Maeglir said urgently. “Rochiron is not of your kin, Legolas Thranduilion. He lives and dies with the forest. He wishes for the wind to scatter his ashes among the trees he loves. This he entreated from me on another occasion in which we fought together. Let us not sully his memory by denying his request.”

Legolas felt a weight dragging his heart downward into his stomach. Tradition warred with affection and duty with sorrow. Legolas regarded Maeglir keenly. Finally, the prince nodded. “If we should find his body, I will obey his wishes.”

Maeglir visibly relaxed, and Legolas was able to part from the Captain without further words. Súlinnor was directing the retreat as Legolas, Calethor, Hadron, and Galadthor worked their way up into the foothills.

Legolas found himself keeping pace with Hadron, who was eying him curiously. “Speak, Hadron,” Legolas encouraged.

“Captain, did you know my father fought alongside King Thranduil at Dagorlad?”  Hadron declared with pride.

“Nay, I knew not,” Legolas replied with a soft sigh.

“He fell in the attack,” Hadron continued, “but ever are the sons of Magoldir eager to destroy our foes and defend our King.”

“Greatly does the King esteem your service and value your loyalty,” Legolas replied automatically, as his eyes roved among the mounds of goblins the two elves had begun to pass.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, my lord, but I am honored to follow in my sire’s steps and have fought beside you this day,” Hadron said softly.

Legolas paused mid-stride and turned to contemplate the gruff warrior. This was no dutiful recitation or false swagger, the prince realized. Genuine admiration and respect shone from Hadron’s eyes, and Legolas felt his spirits rising. The prince smiled with newfound affection for the warrior. “My heart rejoices that I have such warriors as yourself to stand with me in battle. I will remember your words, Hadron, in times of doubt.”

The Spear-Elf dipped his head in acknowledgment and muttered unintelligible words. The prince’s smile grew, and the two elves parted on the field, each working his way among burning piles of goblin carcasses. Legolas examined the piles critically, remembering which ones he himself had created. He had instructed his warriors to set the bodies alight with care so that no unsuspecting wounded would be harmed. The piles had not seemed quite so numerous during the day, when he had worked with such thoroughness and heaviness of heart. But now as the evening shadows grew, Legolas found the number of goblins overwhelming.

The evening seemed unnaturally silent after the cacophony of battle and even the soft sounds of elven warriors en masse. A cold wind wafted the stench of burning corpses about the hills unto the very eaves of the forest. The darkness of the night was sharp, carrying with it the promise of winter. The hours passed.

Calethor closed his eyes against the pounding of his head. The dark-haired elf was well aware his body demanded rest against his injuries but was annoyed that he was fading so quickly. He had slept the night before last, though for few hours as the elves had traveled downriver late into the darkness. If he had not lost so much blood, he mused, he would have been able to remain alert this night as well. Calethor shook himself and stopped in his path, his eyes searching for the other elves. Thanks to the rises in the ground as well as the piles of goblins, he could not spot the other searchers. Light would not be amiss, he thought, considering that their enemy was no longer a threat. Struck by the idea, the elf proceeded to the nearest pile of goblins and reluctantly began probing for a suitable torch-substitute.

Calethor’s rummaging increased the odor emanating from the bodies, and with a choked gasp, the elf broke away, unable to endure the fumes. He took two steps backwards and promptly tripped against a body lying on the ground. He turned with disgust to behold two more goblins, which seemed to have been neglected between the natural hillside and the other pile of corpses.

Calethor rose coughing and promptly swayed on his feet as the world began to spin about him. He took to one knee in an effort to still the motion, and his ears detected a faint moan from behind him. The dark-haired elf opened his eyes wide, unsure whether he himself had unconsciously let the sound escape or whether a goblin yet lived.

The sound came again, and Calethor gasped as he realized that it was an elven voice. The elf whirled upon the two goblins on the ground, and with keen eyes, discerned the shadowy outlines of two elves, lying buried among the orcs.

“To me! To me!” he shouted frantically as he pushed aside the slaughtered goblins. “I have found them!” he bellowed.

Calethor’s hands shook as he distinguished the slight figure of Belegir and the larger body of Rochiron just to one side. The darkness was too deep for the elf to determine the gravity of their wounds by sight, so he began gently probing each body, desperately seeking any sign of life.

His shouts had alerted the others, and Galadthor appeared first, blazing branch in hand. The veteran stopped short as the light of his torch illuminated the maimed bodies of the two fallen warriors. “Do they yet live?” he rasped.

Calethor did not answer. His hands still trailed the length of Belegir’s body, though the elf remained immobile. His eyes were closed, and Calethor could not decide if the warrior’s chest actually rose and fell with breath, or whether Calethor’s head was causing the world to tremble. Belegir’s body was pierced with two arrows, in his shoulder and leg. Blood had pooled about a gash near his throat.

Galadathor seemed transfixed, and Calethor shakily moved his examination to Rochiron’s body. The Captain laid utterly still, with closed eyes, an arrow protruding from his chest and a gash along his side. Calethor felt his own breath coming shorter as the dark-haired elf decided he must have imagined the moan. He placed his ear close to Rochiron’s mouth and waited.

At the next moment, several events occurred simultaneously: Hadron and Legolas approached running from opposite directions; Galadathor’s torch crackled loudly; and Rochiron moaned, causing Calethor to jump and fall backwards in surprise, onto the body of Belegir, whose eyes flew open with a gasp.

“Belegir!” Hadron shouted triumphantly.

The warrior’s eyes examined the company in painful confusion. “Hadron? What has passed? I—” Belegir’s eyes slid shut, and his face paled further. “My head,” he whispered.

Hadron was immediately beside his friend, speaking calmly and gently bandaging the wound along Belegir’s neck.

After his fall, Calethor had rolled to the ground, but found his dizziness return and could not stand. Legolas had cried aloud at the sight of the Captain, but his attention went first to his friend. “Calethor?” the prince queried with a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder. “What ails you?”

The dark-haired elf attempted a smile, which ended up resembling a grimace. “It seems my head wishes to dance, your highness.”

Legolas frowned and pushed his friend down sternly against the ground. “Rest, Calethor. Your prince commands you,” he added gruffly as the other elf began to exclaim. “Galadthor!” Legolas spoke sharply to the veteran, who finally snapped out of his reverie. “Make haste to the refuge. We need three litters, lights, and bandages. Leave your torch behind. Now!” The prince reiterated, and Galadthor fled on his errand.

Ignoring Hadron’s and Belegir’s conversation as well as Calethor’s protests, Legolas finally allowed himself to kneel beside Rochiron. The prince felt his chest constrict as the Captain moaned again. With gentle fingers, Legolas probed the body to discover any hidden injuries or broken bones. Though not formally a healer, the youngest prince of Mirkwood was quite adept at battlefield physic. He proceeded cautiously, unwilling to let even the smallest detail escape his notice. As he ran his hands along the Captain’s legs, Legolas felt his fingers connect with a blood-soaked cloth upon the thigh above the knee.

The prince quickly retrieved the torch Galadthor had abandoned. Positioning the light beside Rochiron’s body, the prince examined the cloth, and, upon close inspection, discovered it to be a piece of the Captain’s tunic. Judging by the amount of cloth and its saturation, the fabric was covering a deep wound. Not daring to remove the bandage, the Prince quickly investigated the cut on Rochiron’s side. The wound was long, but shallow since the ribcage had not been affected. Legolas felt his mind panicking, wondering how long the Captain had lain bleeding to death upon the field.

“I cannot recall what has passed,” Belegir confessed reluctantly to Hadron, though Legolas easily overheard the warrior.

Hadron raised his eyes and exchanged a concerned glance with the prince. Such a severe head-wound could take many days to heal. Legolas sighed and cast his eyes toward the still form of Calethor, who appeared to have either succumbed to slumber or unconsciousness. The prince’s shoulders sagged as he realized that he should have never pushed his friend so far.

Rochiron moaned a fourth time, and Legolas focused his attention on the Captain’s face. The prince could not tell if it was the hazy torchlight or whether Rochiron’s eyelids had indeed trembled. “Captain Rochiron? Legolas asked tentatively.

Hadron met his eyes once more. “Captain Rochiron?” the Spear-Elf’s gruff voice queried.

But Rochiron did not move, and the silence of the night stretched.

“Hadron, why are you here?” Belegir asked suddenly into the silence.

Legolas looked sympathetically at Hadron, as the elf patiently explained again the events of the previous days. The prince shook the Captain gently by the shoulder, but received no response. Settling himself against the hillside, Legolas resigned himself to the frustration of waiting, and fixed his gaze on Rochiron, with occasional glances toward Calethor.

Earlier that evening, the prince had felt the undeniable signs of exhaustion pervade his body, but now he seemed focused, as if woken from long slumber. Legolas tried to strategize, considering the eventuality of a nocturnal attack or the logistics of returning to the palace. However, the elf could not organize his thoughts, and the dim notion that Girithron’s patrol would even now be journeying to their aid arrested his planning. His thoughts spiraled inevitably to the wounded Captain laying in front the prince no matter to which other directions Legolas cast his mind. Nor could he think of Rochiron in a coherent fashion: the prince’s memories flitted through his consciousness, episodes remained incomplete, and dialogue interrupted. He remembered the first patrol during which he had served under Rochiron’s command, but the details would not crystallize. Then, another memory grew in his mind of the Captain’s teaching him to construct a bow. Legolas saw Rochiron’s mouth moving with the words of explanation, but the prince could not hear them. His mind then presented him with the setting of a feast in which he spotted Rochiron seated at Thranduil’s right hand, in the place of honor. His father was speaking, but Legolas was not to remember the words. The prince’s mind thus pounded him mercilessly with hazy recollections of a past he could not visualize.

Hadron had remained preoccupied with Belegir until approaching footsteps heralded the arrival of Galadthor and a party of warriors. The Spear-Elf looked toward Legolas for his orders, and he was startled to behold the prince’s face streaked with tears. Legolas’s eyes were glazed, and Hadron suspected he had forgotten his surroundings. Unwilling to interrupt the prince’s grief, Hadron immediately took charge of the situation. “Come, Belegir,” he soothed his friend. “Let us find refuge.”

The warriors with Galadthor transferred Belegir onto a litter as the elf poured confused questions upon them. Hadron indicated Calethor’s still form, and the dark-haired elf was also moved. Finally kneeling beside Legolas, Hadron steeled himself for the daring of his own actions. The Spear-Elf reached out tentatively and shook the prince by the shoulder. “Captain?” he queried.

Legolas turned unfocused eyes upon the warrior, and a moment passed before the prince shook himself out of his reverie. Legolas jumped up, as he perceived that Galadthor had finally returned. “Gently!” he commanded, as the warriors turned to move the body of Captain Rochiron. “Do not jostle him,” the prince warned.

With the wounded thus transferred, the elves began a slow march toward their refuge for the night. The wind had intensified, and the goblin piles smoked with a foul odor. After a long silent walk, the elves finally arrived at the overhang. A grave Súlinnor and several healers greeted them. Calethor’s condition was proclaimed the least serious: the dark-haired elf had succumbed to exhaustion and the blood-loss from his head and was merely sleeping deeply. Belegir’s arrow wounds were shallow, and Haedirn removed the shafts dexterously. His head-wound was more concerning, but after administering a sleeping draught the healer expressed confidence that Belegir’s memory would return.

Legolas instructed that Rochiron be laid apart from the others, and the Captain was placed in a natural dip in the rock wall. Erethion swiftly removed the arrow in the Captain’s chest, and, though deep, the wound was not poisoned. The healer exhaled softly as he contemplated the gash upon Rochiron’s thigh. Erethion had displaced the blood-soaked bandage to reveal a cruelly jagged wound, running deep into the muscle and tissue of the thigh.

“Erethion?” Legolas asked sharply once the healer paused in his movements.

“Much blood has he lost,” the elf replied quietly. “The wound is not clean, Captain,” he added further.

“But he lives!” The prince asserted fiercely.

The healer nodded slowly. “I will cleanse it, though I dare not stitch it closed. The bandages must be changed regularly,” he continued, rising. “We must wait.”

Legolas remained fixed, watching Erethion’s calm movements. The elves had built a fire to one side and had plenty of boiling water available for the cleaning of wounds. The healer soaked a bandage in water and gingerly cleaned the cut.

“Captain Legolas?” Súlinnor approached the prince cautiously. “I have assigned the watch for the night.”

Legolas nodded once, but did not remove his watch from Rochiron.

The lieutenant of the Southern Company divided his gaze between the prince and the wounded Captain. Sighing, he began, “Captain, with respect, will you not yourself sleep this night?”

The prince shook his head and did not speak.

Súlinnor bit his lip. “Captain,” he essayed a second time, “will you lead us in mourning at dawn? ‘Twould be a great honor to the fallen.”

Legolas nodded.

“Then should you not seek rest now?” Súlinnor persisted.

Finally, the prince turned to meet the lieutenant’s gaze. A ghost of a smile illuminated his countenance. “There are many hours yet ‘til dawn. I will rest later, Súlinnor, and you have my thanks for your concern.”

“I am not wearied, Captain. Let me keep watch,” Súlinnor said unyieldingly.

Erethion had finished his ministrations and retreated with a promise to return regularly to change the bandages.

Legolas settled himself cross-legged on the ground and eyed the lieutenant irritably as Súlinnor imitated his actions. “How is Captain Maeglir?” the prince asked, hoping to change the subject of their discourse.

“He is healing rapidly now that he has expelled the poison. He sleeps yonder, as should you, Captain.” Súlinnor bluntly returned to their former topic. The prince’s shoulders sagged, and the lieutenant was reminded of the other elf’s weariness.

“I cannot sleep yet,” Legolas said softly. He looked fully into Súlinnor’s eyes, and the elf was checked by undisguised pain. “Keep watch with me?” the prince asked gently. 

Súlinnor nodded, his throat too tight for words. Perhaps he had been determined with the prince, but the lieutenant remembered all too well the vigil he wished to have kept over the body of Maeglir. But he had been forced to lie powerless, a prisoner, and wait for rescue.

And so the two elves sat in silence. Watching. Waiting.

A sudden sound of shifting stones jarred Legolas from an uncomfortable sleep. The prince snapped his head up and beheld Erethion quietly changing the bandages upon Rochiron’s leg. Ashamed that he had succumbed to weariness, Legolas glanced at Súlinnor, who was awake.

“You let me sleep,” the prince accused.

Súlinnor regarded him silently. “It is just past midnight,” the lieutenant returned after a pause.

Legolas shook his head to clear its cobwebs as Erethion departed. He stared at Rochiron, willing any change in the Captain’s condition. Rochiron had not made a sound since being moved from the battlefield to the elven refuge and neither had he stirred. Sighing, Legolas hung his head in frustration.

Súlinnor’s sudden movement roused the prince from impending slumber as the lieutenant rose fluidly and bent over Rochiron’s body. “Did you see?” he asked excitedly.

Blinking blearily, Legolas joined Súlinnor. The two elves waited anxiously as Rochiron’s eyelids trembled, fluttered, and finally, were opened. Two grey eyes stared at prince and lieutenant for several moments before any of the elves could speak.

Finally, unable to contain himself, Súlinnor launched into an emphatic discourse of his own personal joy at the Captain’s revival, Captain Maeglir’s recovery and concern for his friend, as well as the sentiments of several other elves among the company.

Rochiron’s eyes flitted briefly to Súlinnor’s face, and the slightest tug at the Captain’s lips suggested the ghost of a smile. The Captain’s eyes came to rest upon Legolas, and the prince felt himself further drained by the intensity of the gaze. “Water,” the wounded elf whispered.

Legolas quickly brought the water, and after drinking deeply, Rochiron regarded the prince anew. “How many?” he asked quietly, oblivious to Súlinnor’s continued monologue, now incorporating the day’s events.

“Eleven,” Legolas replied heavily.

Rochiron closed his eyes briefly. “Less than I feared,” he said, regarding the prince. “You did well.”

Legolas bowed his head in acknowledgement of the praise, though he felt it was more generosity on the part of the Captain than his own merit. “Esgaldir,” the prince remembered suddenly. “As he lay dying, he feared he had lost his honor. He wanted you to know he tried to prevent your fall.”

Rochiron’s stare grew keener. “I never doubted him,” the Captain spoke faintly. “Fear must be overcome, even at the last. I knew he would not run away.” Rochiron sighed and closed his eyes again. “My leg,” he said tightly, “is the wound poisoned?”

“Nay,” the prince countered swiftly. “It will heal.”

The Captain relaxed and fixed his gaze once more on Legolas. “Who is in command?” he demanded with a shadow of his usual taciturnity.

“I am.” Legolas smiled in reply.

Rochiron grunted and turned his eyes upon the lieutenant. “Súlinnor Nandírion, cease your prattle!” he commanded gruffly. “Your Captains require silence to rest.”

Grinning, Súlinnor beamed at Rochiron’s frown and Legolas’s half-smile. The merry lieutenant began a slow song paradoxically at odds with his enthusiastic energy. Legolas settled himself against the rock, allowing his body to finally relax. The prince’s last conscious thought was the hope that someone would wake him before dawn as he drifted to sleep.

oooo

Reformatted for the sake of clarity. Let an “x” by a name denote character death (in case you’re keeping tabs).

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Warriors

Captain Maeglir

Captain Rochiron

Captain Aegnir

Captain Nandír

Lieutenant Súlinnor

Lieutenant Calethor

Amathor

Barahad

Belegir

Brethildor x

Calardir (runner)

Celegnir

Dorothor x

Erethion (healer)

Esgaldir x

Feron x

Filechon x

Galadthor

Gilbor

Hadron

Haedirn (healer)

Helediron

Lalvon x

Lastor x

Málchanar

Ornor x

Raenlas (runner/messenger)

Thanduir

Tuilinnor

Tulustor x

TRANSLATION:

Mellon nín: my friend