With but a moment's respite, Legolas quickly pulled Silor to his feet and dragged him into the trees. The Sinda did not speak, for the pain of his dislocated shoulder would be excruciating, indeed Legolas was pleased he kept silent and allowed himself to be led away from the fray, however unceremonious it had been.
Running back to the field he caught Galadan's eye, before sprinting to the royal tent and ripping the canvas door open. Empty, it was empty. With no signs of a skirmish, Legolas deduced that Lainion would have whisked the Prince away no sooner the first cry to arms had been given. It was standard protocol he knew and so, strangely relieved, he turned and made his way back to Galadan's position - how he wanted to run to the end of the line and help his brothers, but Galadan held the camp with the help of but two other warriors, one of them being himself. He could not, in all conscience, leave them.
The sound of his own, harsh breathing was the only sound to reach his sensitive ears, deafening though it was, and for a long while, it was all he could hear, that and the frantic thump of his overworked heart. His breath came in harsh, gulped breaths and he adjusted his position on the floor to ease its passage and replenish his starved lungs.
Pain shot through his shoulder and one side of his chest but he cared not. He needed to regain his breath and so he held himself on all fours until slowly, the thumping and the gasping were replaced by heavy breathing. A drop of blood fell to the earth below his face and he realised he could not see through one eye. A moment of panic took him and he reached up to touch his was slick with blood that had ran into his eye. Blinking furiously he managed to clear the red haze enough to see, not blinded, thank the Valar.
He sat back on his haunches and tilted his face to the sun, closing his eyes for a moment as his head protested the movement and he grimaced through the stabbing pain at his temples. Swallowing thickly, he opened them once more and for the first time since the battle had ended, he cast his eyes around their ruined camp, licking his parched lips and grimacing at the dryness in his mouth.
There were bodies strewn about the place, orcs and elves splayed this way and that. Were they all dead? he asked himself as his eyes desperately sought the slightest of movements to tell him he was not alone.
The need to know drove him slowly to his unsteady feet, hands leaning heavily upon his thighs as he adjusted to the pull on sore muscles and the bone deep fatigue he felt. It was then, that a hand fell on his shoulder, warm and distinctly elven.
"Are you alright?" asked its owner with a final squeeze before walking away, not waiting for an answer. "Come, we must help our brothers," he said flatly, and Legolas stood up, walking cautiously for a moment so that he could take stock of his injuries. Well at least he could walk, he mused, and that was enough for now. Everything else could wait for he stood upon a killing field and his stomach felt like molten lead.
Moving from one elf to the next, they found three dead and four seriously wounded, amongst them, Silor, Commander Celegon and two other, Sinda warriors.
"Lieutenant Galadan," called Legolas, surprising himself with his rasping voice. "What of the other battle further behind?" he asked in trepidation.
Galadan turned, his eyes studiously blank as he answered. "I do not know, Legolas. But whatever transpired, it is over now, it is all we can do to aid the wounded."
Legolas turned his ear to the wind and realised it was so, for the sounds of battle had ceased. All was done and all they could do was to pick up the pieces of this, disastrous ambush, one that should never have come to pass.
Soon, Galadan and Legolas had moved the four injured warriors into the remains of the royal tent. The dead would have to wait. It had been a painstaking effort, for both of them had sustained wounds, and if the exhaustion that comes with a battle such as this was not enough, the physical demands of carrying the wounded into the royal tent had them both panting and grimacing with the pain in their bodies.
"Silor," said Galadan. "Can you sit up and guard the tent in our absence?" he asked carefully, his eyes watching the warrior's every move.
"Yes, Sir," he said as he struggled to sit upright, adjusting his dislocated shoulder with a grimace and clutching a knife in the other. "I will do what I can," he said with some difficulty and Galadan nodded, and as Legolas turned to accompany him, his eyes met Silor's. There was grief in the Sinda's eyes, grief and regret and Legolas wondered what Silor would see in his own eyes. Could he see the anger? the frustration? the disappointment?
He had no more time to think on Silor, for Galadan was already striding away towards where The Company would have made their stand and with every step they took, Legolas' heart dropped further and further into his stomach. Should he find them dead, Ram en Ondo and Idhrenohtar - no - he would not think on it. It was time to act, the heart had no place here, not now.
Soon enough, the glade emerged before them and for the first time in his life, Legolas did not know whether to laugh or cry…
Dusk was falling and so was the temperature. Legolas had gathered all the cloaks and blankets that were salvageable and brought them to their makeshift headquarters, where eight injured warriors now lay.
Galadan, Legolas and Galdithion had set themselves tasks that, under any other circumstances, required many more hands - but there were no more. Ram en Ondo lay insensate and Idhrenohtar burned with a fever. Lindohtar had suffered a scimitar wound to the thigh that had reached through to the bone. Commander Celegon had a concussion and various blade wounds, while Silor's arm was unusable. The other two warriors were still unconscious and it had been all they could do to stop the bleeding. There were no healers amongst them, for Dorhinen had perished.
Galdithion stood guard while Legolas gathered what little firewood was to be had, and water - buckets of it, indeed he had spent the last two hours hauling it into the tent and with this final pale, he lost his balance and crashed to his knees beside it. He was exhausted and he could no longer feel his hands it was so cold.
"Legolas?" came the soft voice from one of the pallets. Lindohtar.
"Lindo?" asked Legolas as he struggled to his feet and made his way over. "How are you?"
"It is painful, I will not lie," he said with a grimace.
"A little more and you would have lost your leg," said Legolas quietly.
"Aye," said Lindo. "How are Idhreno and Ram en?" asked the Bard Warrior.
"Not good. We must get to Imladris as fast as we may, but there are only three of us - and two day's ride separate us from the healing halls - nay I say two days but in the state we are in, it will take us four at least. We can only hope that our Prince and Lainion made it safely and will bring help to meet us on the path."
"We are closer than I thought," said Lindo thoughtfully.
"And thank the Valar for that," said Legolas with a soft smile. "Now, you rest, I work. Keep your knife close brother, for there are no guards to safeguard you."
"I will. And Legolas, see to your own injuries - we need you to get us back."
Legolas simply nodded, before hefting the water to one corner of the tent and then reporting to Galadan.
"Sir. There is water aplenty and enough firewood for tonight I would guess. I could try to hunt, if the enemy has been depleted, there is a reasonable chance at catching something."
"Have we no supplies at all?" asked Galadan, alarmed.
"None that could be saved Sir. It is all ruined. I have retrieved as many canteens as I could find and have filled them. Of our eighteen horses, I have managed to herd 10. They are tethered to our left, close to the tent. Should the enemy make an appearance we do not want them to flee, and should we need to flee we will be able to do so quickly, with at least the water we will need…" said Legolas, but he was still thinking, his mind searching for anything he may have missed.
Galadan's eyes lingered on Legolas for long, almost uncomfortable moments, before he finally spoke.
"Your reasoning is sound, Legolas," he said softly, before continuing. "See what you can find in the way
of wood for transporting the more seriously wounded."
"I have done that Sir. There is not much, but with the thicker branches I have found and the leather from our unused tack, I should be able to fashion something- I will see to it," he said as he moved to turn, but a hand on his bicep stopped him.
"Legolas," said Galadan, and for the first time there was a note of emotion in the lieutenant's words. "You have done well…"
Legolas smiled sparingly, before nodding and leaving the warmth of the tent for the frigid cold outside. Galadan's gaze lingered a while longer, before a voice behind him snapped him out of it.
"Did you see him, Galadan? Did you see what I saw?"
"I did," he answered, turning to face the one that had spoken. "I saw it - and I will never forget it, Commander," answered the Sindarin lieutenant.
His face was so cold he could no longer feel it, his expression frozen, his blue eyes watering. Beside him, Lainion galloped as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings for any signs of danger, for the slightest hint of help.
He was a strange elf, mused Handir, strange and so utterly loyal. His father had always seen that, it was why Lainion had been appointed as Handir's personal guard, why the king confided so much in this Avarin lieutenant that would gladly give his life to see his prince returned to safety.
Handir had been whisked away when the first cry to arms had been given. He remembered their camp suddenly erupting into chaos, and Lainion pulling on his arm as he slung a pack over his shoulder. In minutes they had been away and with one final glance over his shoulder, Handir had spotted the Silvan standing in the middle of the glade, his mighty field bow pulled back and then released, the glint of silver upon his bicep and the intricate braids at his temple and crown. Funny the things the mind chooses to see at a given time, and what Handir had seen was not a young Silvan lad of half his own age, whimpering and wallowing in self-pity; he saw a warrior, brave and proud, skilled and loyal, his brother, he reminded himself.
He forced himself then, to think on his own feelings. Did he care that he was running from the danger? Running from his own young brother and leaving him to face whatever destiny had in store for him? Would he care if the boy fell? If he died?
He frowned, for his questions had led him to a conclusion that he had not expected at all …
"Handir," shouted Lainion over the noise of their galloping horses and the howling wind.
"The Bruinen - the Bruinen is ahead - we are almost there!" shouted Lainion.
Handir nodded his understanding, and as he turned his face to the wind once more, he wondered where Legolas would be now. Was he dead, or did he live? - was anyone still alive, or had they all been slaughtered, in spite of his brother's warning? Had elven lives been lost due to the absurd rivalry between Sinda and Silvan elves?
Handir's purpose was bolstered - it could not be allowed to continue, and as soon as he had learned all he could from Erestor, he would travel back to the wood and put a stop to it, once and for all. But his battlefield would be in the council room, his enemies those close to Lord Bandorion.
"They have crossed the Bruinen."
"They should be here by tomorrow then."
"Yes."
"What is it?" The golden-blond warrior turned his face and studied the fine silhouette of his raven-haired lord who simply stared out over the balcony to the lands beyond.
"There are only two…" came the answer, and Elrond's bright silver eyes were now upon him, deep pools of wisdom and a surety that could not be denied.
Nodding curtly, the warrior swivelled on his heels and strode away, his long burgundy cloak fanning around him, revealing for just a moment, a blazing sun carved upon silver metal and the pommel of an ancient blade, forged in the valleys of Tumladen.
Frosted breath escaped his slack mouth, his blue eyes watering with the sting of November frost. He was hungry, and tired - so tired it was all he could do to keep his eyelids from shutting of their own accord.
His ears were freezing and it was, perhaps, the only thing that was keeping him awake, that and the smart of a colourful collection of cuts and bruises he had acquired during the battle, and after as he had struggled together with Legolas and Galadan to prepare their desperate journey to Imladris.
They had worked through the night to fashion the stretchers that now carried the eight wounded warriors, amongst them Idhrenohtar, Ram en Ondo, Lindohtar, Commander Celegon, and of course Silor, their would-be lieutenant. It was hard enough work as it was, but after a battle the likes of which they had survived, it was no wonder they dragged their feet and spoke not a word.
Silor, he sneered to himself as he adjusted his quiver upon his aching back, rolling his shoulders in an effort to ease it. What would come of his misconduct was yet to be seen, for Galdithion did not know Commander Celegon at all; all he knew is that he was a Sinda, and as such, would probably let Silor off with a few harsh words - that would be the end of it and it irked the Silvan warrior. He had been in the military for long enough to know it was an institution run by the Sindar, but that survived thanks to the Silvan warriors that constituted the bulk of Thranduil's army.
It was their lot, he said to himself bitterly. To fight and then allow their superiors to take the merit. It was profoundly unfair - and dangerous, he knew, for sooner or later, the Silvan people would rebel, and that was a scenario he did not want to contemplate…
Thunder rumbled in the distance and his eyes sharpened upon the slate grey towers of a storm that lay but a handful of leagues away. What else would mother nature throw at them on this, ill-fated journey? How much more could the three of them endure, before there were only two, and then one? he thought bitterly.
With a heavy breath he heaved himself to his feet and walked back to their camp, his mood dour and his spirit heavy. However no sooner had he sat at their meagre camp fire and crossed his legs, his eyes met those of Legolas and the boy smiled, he smiled so radiantly through the heavy morning mist that it seemed the Sun had found a path through the clouds. His dour mood now light and hopeful, his spirit bright once more. Who was this child? Who was this warrior who looked like a Sinda but professed he was Silvan? for his face was fair beyond any he had ever seen and his body spoke of a discipline far beyond what he would expect from one so young.
There was something lodged in the spirit of this Silvan child, something behind those extraordinary green eyes - something that was not common, something completely out of the ordinary. It was inspiring and Galdithion found himself smiling back and although he was cold and in pain, although their situation was dire - a strange sense of joy and purpose rushed through him, warming his heart and bolstering his courage. Let fate do her worst for somehow, Galdithion knew, without the slightest shadow of doubt, they would not fail.
His prince sat hunched over the saddle, cold and hungry he knew, but he was safe; thank the Valar he was safe. Lainion had pushed them to the limit, stopping only to drink and ease their aching muscles, before moving once more.
Handir was no warrior, he was not accustomed to such hardship for this was not his place, this was not his stage. Handir did not use his body to defend his kingdom but his mind, his agile mind that would one day serve their kingdom well. He needed protection here in the wild, needed Lainion to see him to safety so that one day, that may come to pass.
Almost there, he thanked the Valar, any moment now, they would surely come across the Noldorin sentinels and be escorted to Elrond's house, for they were frozen and starving, exhausted and in danger, and should they be attacked now, Lainion doubted he would even be able to grasp his sword so numb were his fingers.
"Halt! State your name and purpose in these lands!" came a shout from the distance, spoken with authority in a Sindarin accent Lainion had not heard for centuries. He could almost hear Handir's relief, indeed he could not stop the corners of his own mouth from turning upwards.
"Lieutenant Lainion, of His Majesty King Thranduil's armed forces, escorting Prince Handir Thrand
uilion," shouted Lainion in his own, peculiar accent. No sooner had he pronounced those words, and four horses cantered towards them, tall warriors upon their backs. They were imposing, conceded Lainion, with their armour and their strictly braided blue-black locks and their silver eyes that glinted with life and intellect.
"Well met, Prince Handir. We have been searching for you. What has become of your entourage?" asked the leader of the group in concern.
"Thank you," was all Handir managed through is frozen lips, turning to Lainion for him to report their situation.
"We were ambushed upon the road. All I know is that there was a mighty host. The battle would not have gone well - they will need help," said Lainion, his words a little slurred and not as strong as he would have liked.
The Noldo, however, seemed to understand his predicament and simply nodded, falling into step with them as they changed course and headed home. The leader, however, sent one rider forward, to report, supposed Lainion in relief. His heart was heavy at what they would find, for if Legolas had been right, the odds of survival were, quite frankly, poor to non-existent.
A strong hand held a canteen before his face and Lainion suddenly realised it must have been there for some time. Turning to the warrior that held it, he startled for a moment, for the grey eyes that looked back at him were extraordinary - and familiar.
"Thank you," said Lainion, suddenly aware of how weak he sounded. Taking a sip, his eyes closed in ecstasy as the thick liquid slid down his throat, warming him and infusing his taste buds with the flavour of honey and herbs, and no small amount of liquor. Miruvor!
"Thank you, Elrondion," he ventured, and the warrior smiled before nodding and returning to the fore. They would soon be indoors, warm and fed, would soon be lying upon a bed of fresh linen and a roaring fire. Yet he could not stop thinking of the battle they had fled. What had become of his comrades? Were they alive? Dead? or worse, captured by the enemy? Did Legolas still draw breath or had he perished? The Valar forbid it, he shouted to himself, do not dare take him from Arda, for he is needed - the Silvan people need him - and Lainion too, he realized, for in Legolas he had found his own purpose, and for that to die would leave him floundering upon an infinite sea of chaos…
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