In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past

In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present
Tanesa Etaleshya
My Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Rating: NC 17
Summary: Legolas mourns in the elven waking dream world, lamenting the loss of a love that gave him the reason to live and reliving precious memories and nightmares alike, his mind turning to Imladris and the joy he knew in its hallowed halls.
Author’s Notes: Back to the juicy angsty stuff I say! Enjoy! Let me know how you like it, please, that is, if anyone is still reading. Lol (my god, that is the first time I have used internet slang- first time for everything is there not?).

*~*~*~*~Part 2~*~*~*~*

Chapter 3: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present

They had just begun the slow but dramatic ascent into the mountains a day before, four days since they had crossed the river, and gradually the river valley fell further and further both behind and below them, the sound of the rushing water receding to the faintest whisper before it was lost even to keen elvish hearing. It was early evening and the party was beginning to contemplate stopping for the night and were looking for an adequate place in which they could easily keep watch, and easily defensible. It was at this moment that the scouts sent out by Glorfindel earlier returned the familiar birdcalls, the reproduced sound of the kildere, indicating that there were orcs on fast approach to their position. The scouts appeared and close on their heels were those twisformforms that sought to destroy and conquer, pouring out of the shadow like water from a spring.

Glorfindel shouted orders and the party grouped together in a tight circular formation, Elrond, Glorfindel and the still injured, albeit recuperating, Sindarin prince in the center. When Glorfindel looked hastily in the direction of the wood elf, he could not say he was surprised to see the Sindar shrugging off the sling Elrond had tied about his broken arm and hand, and hafforffortlessly though not painlessly, drawn his bow taut, an arrow notched and ready to fly. He only awaited the order to fire.

Legolas was then glad for the attentive nature in which Lord Elrond had treated his wounds, had tended his broken bones, for they were now usable. Between the healing power of the Lord of Imladris and the lingeringly tenacious connection to the Wood he had left behind, he had healed eno enough that he could manage to both stand and to draw his bow. He only prayed his strength would last and that he was healed enough by then to withstand the battle to come.

Glorfindel noted that the disciplined elf was as willing to lead as he was to follow. His respect for the wood elf was growing daily, his stern reserve, his strength of will and body. A warrior at heart he seemed, and yet so very much more, lonely and aloof not the least of his other characteristics.

The battle began when the orcs at the rear of the assault grew restless and shoved those unfortunate ones in the fore guard towards the battle-hardened elves at the perimeter of the circle. Though the elves were far superior in skills, the orcs were greater in number and emboldened by the drive to kill and maim, finding pleasure in the pain of others, release that they should not be the only ones to suffer. The battle, therefore, was drawn out accordingly, numbers against skill, brute strength against time-tested force of will and sheer determination.

Legolas, to Glorfindel’s relief, remained astride the horse on which he had been riding, and remainn thn the center of the formation. He did it not out of fear or as an accommodation to his injury, but simply because the distance afforded him the continued ability to wield his bow, aiding the Imladrin elves when they had need. Glorfindel, too, raised his bow and, in seeking unconscious (yet compulsive) comparison, marveled at thuid uid grace of the wood elf, a grace even he of ancient years and he who had seen the Light of the Two Trees could not hope to match. To the Elf-lord, it seemed as if the bow of Legolas was no more than an extension of the wood elf’s slender body, and he took note of how his aim remained precisely deadly despite the pain his broken arm and hand must cause him with each draw and release. Upon studying the Sindar’s face foe she shortest of moments, Legolas seemed most able to force all thought out of his exc except for concentration upon his bow and the flow of orcs around their circular formation, his face remained a mask of determined concentration, detached from everything but the study of movement around him and his bow.

The blond Eldar, when he could, watched almost protectively over the Sindarin prince, concerned that he remain atop the horse for his broken leg would hinder his movements once upon the ground. Glorfindel knew it was only a matter of time before Legolas would be unable to remain so high, when all the others would have dropped from their mounts to leave the golden prince an easy mark, and he wished for the elf to remain for as long as he could and desperately hoped that Legolas would act responsibly and take flight. Even as he dared to allow the thought to cross his mind, he knew it would not be, for he knew well enough that Legolas would not abandon a battle, would not leave behind those who fought valiantly at his side to save his own life. The Eldar knew this with every fiber of his being and knew it through the example the elf in question had given him the first day he had seen him, the day Legolas had stepped in front of him to take the arrow in his place. Even knowing nothing of the Elf-lord, not even his name perhaps, the golden prince of Mirkwood had put his life in danger to save him. It was a lesson Glorfindel would never forget for long, if occasionally mislaid in the tumultuous clutter of his mind.

*~*~*

The battle went on around them. The resounding clashing of metal upon metal, the ringing of sword upon sword, the guttural shouts of the orcs, the cries of pain from elf and the shrieks of dying orcs, punctuated the reserved, intimidating silence of the fighting elves of Imladris, filled the air around them, disturbing the peaceful serenity that should have existed here high on the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The twisted, gnarled oaks and the brightly colored birch with their stark white bark stood witness to the battle that broke the still peace of their existence. Too often now were they forced to bear witness to such carnage, such painful cries.

Legolas, in the back of his mind, was ever alert to their warnings, listening to their speech like a whisper in his consciousness. He paid them attention when he should have been focused upon the battle and that alone, yet he knew the trees provided valuable insight, such as oncoming numbers of orcs or warnings for that which he could not see. He heard their complaints about how their kin had been cut down for firewood, heard them speak of the rancid stink of the orcs and their dens higher up in the rocks. In this milieu of awareness, a consciousness shifting from tree to tree like the wind dancing across trembling leaves, Legolas drew, aimed, fired, drew, aimed, fired, a repetitive motion learned well through his years in the darkening forests of his homeland. The familiar but sickening stench of fetid orc breath stained the air about him, mingling with sweat and the filth of grime upon their muscular, brawny frames. He fired again and again, turning where the trees gave him warning enough, killing orcs who, in superior numbers as they were would have killed an elf already engaged. And in his alacrity he thinned the numbers pressing in about the elves, forcing them to take their steps more carefully, still pushing forward however slowly until there was little space for Legolas to remain upon the horse amongst those few others who also remained.

Glorfindel was among those who last dismounted, relinquishing his bow for the slightly curved sword of the Guards of Imaldris, Elrond at his side. Fierce they two were, long hardened in battles lost to myth and legend, yet here they were, inimitable warriors of ancient days, their eyes aglow with vengeance for those lost in days, years and centuries past, ancient wrongs alive in their memories, real in their minds. And in Glorfindel they saw more, for a light burned through him, a light against which the darkness of night could do nothing to dispel, a white-hot star glowed within him. From the Balrog-slayer the orcs fled in fear for the radiance shining forth from him in his anger, an Elf of ancient days with power undiminished through time as it was in those born upon these Hither Shores. In Elrond they found the strength and determination of the Noldor and the Peredhil combined to terrible consequences for their kind. And orcs quailed before the onslaught of their combined wrath.

He dropped to the ground after he had slapped his horse’s rear; Elrond’s too, bidding them seek shelter elsewhere lest they impair the abilities of the elves to move with ease. He called then to Legolas with heavy heart for him to dismount. Legolas heard him, and in moving saw the orc approaching swiftly upon an elf engaged already with two others, being slowly forced outside the circle in a steady lure of retreat. Legolas let loose the arrow he hesitated in dismounting to draw.

Too late Glorfindel turned to survey the situation. Too late to aid the Sindar, he saw the orc aiming a crossbow at the unprotected back of the fallen prince. Still he wielded his bow with deadly accuracy while all others had taken to the use of their curved swords. Glorfindel had noted the moments before that Legolas was working through a second quiver of arrows, arrows fletched with the red and gold of Imladris, not the yellow and gold of Mirkwood. He thought but fleetingly of the elf that must have handed over the quiver, the respect that must have been there for one warrior to relinquish his own weapons even in the press of a horrible foe, in admiration for the archer’s flawless skill.

Too late Glorfindel shouted for the archer to duck, for Legolas turned once he had fired the pointed missile, not bothering to watch if its aim was true, for it would never be doubted, nor would he ever miss. The fallen prince turned upon the horse’s back, his bow raised, arrow notched to see what it was the Elf-lord wanted of him. In so doing, he presented the orc a perfect target. Before it fired, Glorfindel grabbed a discarded orcish blade and threw it with all his might, skewering the hapless orc, but not before he had released the fateful arrow.

Legolas had observed the scene unfold in the cold detachment of battle, his thinking uncolored with the taint of emotive distractions, searching for the source of the Eldar’s alarmed call. Glorfindel, who had turned from him the second he had faced him, alerted him to the threat with the path of his gaze, a path paralleled by that of the Lord of Imladris at the blond elf’s side. Legolas hesitated to follow that path, rather caught up was he in the brilliant light the Elf-lord emitted, the effortless way he moved as he picked up the blade and threw it. Legolas watched the movements of muscled arms and shoulders beneath the tunic and stared in rapt attention. For it was the first time Legolas had looked upon an Elf-lord in all his might and majestic fury, and this time in the gathering dark of night when all else seemed to pale in comparison. Then Legolas broke from this distraction at a cry from Elrond and he looked to where their eyes had traveled and where Glorfindel’s aim had wrought a garbled sound from the dispatched elf at the same moment the arrow found its mark.

It had all taken but the smallest of moments, yet it culminated in a cry of agony torn from the tortured lung of the archer as the arrow buried itself deep in his exposed side, the force and pain of it driving him to lose his balance. He tumbled from the horse’s back, too far from those who had witnessed his fall for them to aid him or prevent his hard landing or the further penetration of the arrow as it was forced deeper. Yet he pushed the pain back, breathing deeply with the effort to do so. His bow lay on the ground at his feet, discarded for the moment. Stunned, he fought to breathe, to concentrate. He focused his being on the sound of battle, the ringing call of metal clashing, forced himself to his knees at which point he once again had his careful detachment in place. He grabbed the arrow in his side, screamed out his pain as he broke the arrow’s shaft, his detachment now growing out of the pain. He grabbed his precious bow, collecting himself. He concentrated, closing his eyes, driving his attention to the fluttering whisper of tree-voices that raised their volume in dismay at his fall. He returned with assurances that he was alive and that he would live, and, as if to prove his words true to the trees, he made it to his hands and knees, digging his fingers into the hard, dry soil, yearning for the soul of Mirkwood to aid him. He drew from the nearby trees the energy he needed, thanking them while the tingling sensation still burned through his fingers and up into his arms, leaving his heart beating quickly. With the renewed energy, he pushed himself to his feet, raising his bow as he did so. With calm detachment, he drew an arrow with visible effort, drew the stiff bow back, aimed and fired.

Elrond looked back over his shoulder to see Legolas there, drawing another arrow even as the orc who died from the last fell to the ground in front of the Elf-lord. He saw the black arrow protruding from the Sindar’s side, the trail of blood beneath it darkening the green of his tunic, moonlight glinting off the wetness of the stain. That was all he saw as he had to turn back, but Glorfindel saw the elf begin again his routine, albeit slower and more draining it was for him thereafter. Glorfindel remembered later thinking that Legolas could not have had, nor ever would have, an equal with the bow and in this he was not alone in this conclusion over the duration of the Sindar’s stay in Imladris. Glorfindel, in that moment, knew Legolas had unerringly earned the hard-won respect and devout admiration of both the elven lords in that clearing, and knew the reason why, even in the depths of disgrace, Silinde and the other Mirkwood Guards had bowed their heads in respect to this golden elf. He could see the same in Elrond’s face when he had glanced at the archer, and he knew it was mirrored in his own expression. That respect only grew when the injured archer began to pull wounded elves into the middle of the circle, or helped those who could still stand aid other, and from the center he made his stand, in defense of those who could not defend themselves, dispatching their attackers in the process.

When Legolas had pulled back the fourth wounded elf, he left in his wake a breach in the defensive ring. Too close of quarters for the use of his bow, he shouldered it and drew two long knives and faced his foes. He submersed himself in the battle, the sounds became the music and with the steps, parries the dance went on, he a participant, concentrating on his movements, the flow around him, the whispered warnings in his mind.

Glorfindel shuddered to see the Sindar facing the orcs with naught but two long knives, gleaming white handles, blades reflecting the light of moon and stars. He had his doubts as to the knives and their suitability in the present situation, but soon dispelled were they when he saw the unqualified skilth wth which Legolas brandished them. His wonder and awe were further fueled. And yet, an ill foreboding had settled in his soul each time he looked upon the Sindar. Hard –pressed in his own right, the Eldar knew he could do nothing to help him. Even awestruck as he was, Glorfindel had to turn back to concentrate on his own steps, his own opponents, forcing the now-graven image of the graceful Sindar from his mind, yet waiting for the elf to falter in his growing weakness, the increasing difficulty with which Legolas moved, a sheen of sweat gleaming in the moonlight. One more glance and he met his age-old friend’s grey-fired eyes and found them clouded over with sadness and a similar shade of foreboding. Elrond the Foresighted had seen something and with a flicker of his eyes to the Sindar, Glorfindel knew of whom the vision had been. The Sindar was tiring quickly, and both knew it, both knew their sense of ill ease would soon be seen for reality.

The orc numbers were decreasing and the Legolas, like those around him, became steadily more hopeful. It was incredibly difficult to breathe, his chest was on fire; he could feel the warmth of his own blood on his side as it ran from the abused wound. He could feel every orc-blow he met with his blades send shockwaves up his arm, grating bones together and yet he fought on, using every moment he could.

Legolas was flagging; he felt it within himself, felt the growing heaviness of his limbs, their increasing refusal to move quick enough, he knew he could not last much longer, as did the orcs around him, pressing in around him, growling and taunting him. Hope was not yet near enough to hand to rally his spirit, however. Nor did the sight of those beasts surrounding him aid his strength. The feral glint in their eyes grew with each blow he managed to block, parry or dodge, as if he were spurring them on. The knew it was only a matter of time and so they did not press him as they could have, but bided their time, hoping to take this elf alive for their own sick pleasure, the gratification of watching it die. They spoke together in their guttural tongue, laying down their plans for the elf with whom they fought. This one, they said, was a fair prize and they sought to imagine his taste, the feel of his flesh under them, his screams as they tortured him, and they smiled wickedly n anticipation, growling horribly.

Legolas saw their intent in the consuming gleam of their dark eyes, saw the horrid lust burning beneath their hunger and he knew how his end would be at their hands. He listened to their words, long tracking of their brethren in Mirkwood had taught him their guttural tongue, and used this knowledge he oft did in pursuit of their havens. Even repulsed as he was by the utter depravity of this death, Legolas shouldered the burden and went on with the fight, managing to stay one of the three, only to have it replaced a moment later. When it grabbed at the injured elf behind Legolas, the wood elf reacted, and this was his mistake- he turned and his his right side open. There before him, larger and now more feral in face and demeanor, the orc struck hard, not to kill, but to incapacitate. It plunged its black blade into the elf’s thigh, drawing a ragged cry that made their blood boil. Two others seized his arms, wrenching him around, twisting his arms behind his back until he dropped the twin blades.

The scream had quite the opposite effect upon the Elf-lords whose attention was called by the cry and they watched in horror as the blade was ripped free from the wood elf’s thigh then held at his pale throat even as the orc grabbed a handful of his golden hair to subdue him. Legolas’ eyes met the dawn-bright eyes of the blond Eldar for a fraction of an instant, and in that moment Glorfindel saw that the Sindar knew what would happen, the same as Elrond had. And the blonde’s stomach churned to know he could, as yet, do nothing to save the younger elf. He could not abandon his Guards as a whole to save one elf, no matter his position in either Mirkwood or in the Elf-lord’s heart. He watched briefly as Legolas was dragged from the circle, still fighting, but he could barely stand. The orcs stripped him of his weapons hurriedly; cast them aside as they moved away their prizes in tow, Legolas and the injured elf he had fought to save.

*~*~*

Legolas found himself in the dark soon enough, having endured the trip up the mountain to the caves in which the orcs resided. Thrown haphazardly against the rough rock wall, he waited for the opportunity, and waited for the Imladrin Guard to wake. Legolas had feigned unconsciousness, and had concentrated his seemingly unfocused eyes on his surroundings, noting their movements and the landmarks they passed so that he might find his way back down the mountain when he was able or given the chance at escape. He glanced at the Imladrin elf again and knew he would not leave him to suffer. They would leave together or not at all.

He waited still, leaning back against the wall, trying not to move, to bring attention to himself, yet he knew it could not last. He cautiously watched the other elf slowly return to awareness. He had done what little he could to stop the bleeding of the other elf’s wounds before he had tended his own, his skills well-honed through years of patrolling the shadowed eaves of his homeland. He stilled the wounded elf when he tried to rise in fear at not knowing where they were, “Rest for now, pretend to be unconscious and they may leave you alone. Trust me for now, until they can come for us.”

It was not long Legolas had to wait for the words of the orcs to return to him, only in the all-too-palpable shadow of reality.

The other elf pretended for a time, shut his ears to the sounds echoing in the caverns, terrible grunts, taunts of orcish voices, the Sindar’s elvish voice singing to himself to avoid crying out. The Imladrin elf knew why Legolas sang, bitterly he choked back the tears stinging in his eyes; he knew what the Sindarin prince was enduring and he feared for him, and for himself seeing as he would be next once they killed or tired of Legolas. He sent a prayer to the Valar to help them, to help the Golden Prince and to set speed to the feet of the elves he knew would coor tor them. Then he mercifully found himself unconscious again as the exhaustion of blood loss caught up with him.

What he did not know was that Legolas had not given up, or given in, but found within himself the strength to fight on using whatever means he had or could find, from loose rocks to a sword Legolas had taken from one of the orcs he had felled by hand.

To Be Continued… Please read and review! I like to hear from you!

Author’s Responses:
To giggle: In answer to the question of what his, meaning Legolas’, problem is, it’s slowly coming out, but we’ll have to get to Rivendell for the truth to start emerging, when Legolas and the others are forced to live together and encounter all the problems I am starting to envision, in addition to a little romance. I don’t want to give too much away, but hold on to some little bit of hope for our besieged archer-prince!
LadyDrea: Imagine me bowing in thanks! Really, I am laughing- I’m not worthy!
Calenharn Elflover: Nitpick away! I am something of a perfectionist so I thank you for your criticism, and hope that you will not find any mistakes in this chapter (or have not since the response is at the end not the beginning).
Ash: Sooner than I thought it would be, but I had some time, so I hope you enjoyed it!