This, And My Heart Beside *added ch. 20/part 1*

CHAPTER 4


Turning his head very slowly, Legolas looked over his shoulder. When a large black shape loomed into the outer edge of his vision, he whirled around quickly. A broad, relieved smile spread across his young face, when he saw the tall black horse that stood quietly, regarding him with intelligent eyes.

“Where did you come from?” the Prince asked, reaching up a hand to stroke the stallion’s soft nose. The horse pulled back quickly and turned, trotting a few paces away before facing Legolas again.

“What is it, my friend?” The horse had returned to him and lowered his head to nuzzle his nose softly against Legolas’ chest. When the Elven boy looked into his eyes, he knew.

“Isalith,” Legolas whispered. “Show me.”

The black stallion turned and trotted away, the Prince running behind. Several times, the horse looked over his shoulder, as if to be sure Legolas could keep up with his pace. They hadn’t covered much ground when the Elf realized that they were drawing near to the cliffs that he’d shown Isalith just the day before. That knot of fear was now twisting inside him, like a fist. They’d come to the top of the cliffs, and as they approached the drop-off, the stallion slowed. He stood quiet and still as Legolas walked past him, his blue eyes wide with apprehension. When he was within several feet of the cliff’s edge, he dropped to his hands and knees and crept frd crd carefully, his young heart pounding. Slowly, he looked over the precipice, and his heart faltered. There, on a narrow ledge approximately twelve feet below the clump of ollo-berry bushes, his friend lay sprawled, one leg bent at an unfeasible angle. Legolas knew it was shattered.

“Isalith!” he cried. Only the slight fluttering of his friend’s closed eyes assured him that Isalith had heard him. He was barely conscious and undoubtedly in excruciating pain. “Lay still, we are coming. Help is coming!”

Legolas pushed himself backward, away from the cliff-face, and began running before he was even fully upright. The black stallion had vanished. He ran as he never had before, silently begging Eru to hasten his steps. He decided against taking the route back through the forest, wishing to avoid all of the tangled growth that would hinder him. He chose instead to skirt the edge of the woods, staying on mostly level ground. After several minutes of sprinting, his lungs burned and his throat ached. Legolas realized that he was gulping air too quickly, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would run until he either dropped or found someone who could help him. His vision began to swim then, as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him, and he feared he might indeed collapse before reaching the palace; but then, miraculously, the training field used by his father’s Guard came into view. He turned toward the field, and was so keenly focused on reaching it, that he didn’t see Captailorflorfilad until the Elven warrior had caught him around his waist, lifting him off his feet and cradling him in his strong arms. The legs of the Prince were still pumping furiously when he finally heard Belorfilad’s voice as if from the end of a long tunnel.

“Your Majesty, what is wrong? Legolas! Child, what is it?”

Legolas looked up at him for a moment before recognition appeared in his eyes. He frantically clutched the pointed collar of Belorfilad’s tunic, making several attempts to speak before he was able to whisper hoarsely, “Isalith ….. the cliffs.”

“Prince Legolas, is he injured?” came a deep melodious voice from beside him, fraught with worry. The Prince hadn’t realized that Uriong stood there, too. He turned his head to face him, and nodded.

“His leg,” was all he could manage.

Uriong turned to the group of his warriors that stood on the field with the Mirkwood Gu, ta, talking with them and preparing to begin another training session.

“Tirmo!” he called. “Bring rope!” All of those under his command obeyed immediately.

“Mirkwood, to me, now!” Belorfilad shouted to his warriors. When they reached him, he gently handed Legolas to one of them. “Take the Prince to the palace,” he instructed. “Prince Isalith is in danger. Find the Kings and inform them of what has happened, and if ….” he broke off when he glanced up to see Thranduil, Naniel, Tyrion, and Anylinde rushing toward them, worry evident in their eyes.

“Legolas!” Queen Naniel cried, and nodding her thanks to the Elven guard that held him, she took him in her own arms, hugging him tightly. He threw his arms around her neck, returning the embrace, before holding his arms out to Thranduil, who took him from his mother.

“King Tyrion,” Captain Uriong injected. “I am sorry but we must hurry to the cliffs. Perhaps Prince Las was will explain to you, but we must go *now*.”

“Go,” Tyrion nodded his assent. “We will be right behind you.” Every member of the Royal Guard fled swiftly toward the cliffs, ahead of the others.

The four Kings and Queens, along with Legolas, followed as quickly as they were able.

“Dearest Legolas, what is happening?” Queen Anylinde asked, and the confusion in her lovely eyes was almost as palpable as the fear there.

As he trotted beside his mother and father, the Prince explained, “Isalith must have left the palace during the night to pick the olloriesries, your Highness. I know not why he would doh a h a thing. I warned him of the danger. I am sorry, adar,” his voice came out in a rush as he looked up at Thranduil. “I *had* to look for Isalith, I *had* to, I knew he was in trouble, I felt it. The Guards will save him, will they not, Belorfilad and Uriong, and the others, they will help him?”

“We will *all* help him, my son,” the King assured him. “We are almost there, my friends,” Thranduil added to Tyrion and Anylinde. Indeed, several seconds later, when they reached the crest of a small hill, they saw the Royal Guards working efficiently in unison. They formed a line, each warrior gripping the rope spanning between them. Belorfilad stood only a few feet from the cliff’s edge, his hands clutching the rope on either side of his waist, as it passed behind him, his legs powerfully braced. His long, sun-bright hair lifted and swirled in the breeze that was becoming stronger now. Azure blue eyes looked up at the clouds, assessing.

“We must hurry, Uriong. A storm comes,” he warned.

The Captain of the Ilandrian Guard was perched at the rim of the cliff, his feet firmly against it, as he leaned backward, out over the abyss. The rope had been secured around his waist, and he held it in both hands as he faced Belorfilad. He nodded his understanding. Looking downward just once, he gave a signal and the Elven warriors gradually fed the rope through their hands, lowering him one foot at a time, until there was no more rope left.

“I need more!” Uriong called. “At least another eight feet!”

Belorfilad looked helplessly at the rope in his handsd thd then ae ote other Guards. He beckoned to them, “Come forward a little.” They had moved toward him only a few feet, when he stopped them. He could feel the dangerous loss of balance in his stance. If the other Elves moved any closer to the rim of the cliff, they would lose their leverage; either they would drop Uriong, or all of them would tumble over the edge of the precipice. It couldn’t be risked.

“Can you still not reach him, Uriong?” the Mirkwood Captain called out.

“No,” came the reply.

Belorfilad appeared to be calculating something in his mind for a few seconds before he turned to the next Elf in the line. “Take my place,” he directed him, and the young Guard came and did as he was commanded, but protested when he realized what his commander had in mind.

“Captain,” he began, dubiously, before Belorfilad hushed him with a raised hand.

“It must be done, Tion,” he said quietly. He walked carefully to the edge of the rock face, keeping his grip on the rope. Leaning over slightly he shouted, “I am coming down, my friend.”

The wind was beginning to intensify in earnest now, and Belorfilad made sure his grip on the rope was secure, before he lowered himself over the edge, passing one hand under the other and winding one leg around the rope for extra safety. Sudden gusts of wind, that caused his golden hair to lash across his face and all but obliterate his vision, impeded his progress greatly; but after several torturous moments he looked down to see Uriong only a few feet below, looking up at him in concern.

“Be very careful, the wind is stronger here,” he warned.

Belorfilad smiled wryly. “So I see,” he quipped. Looking down at the unconscious Prince lying on the ledge below, his fair brows drew together in distress. Isalith was more seriously injured than he’d expected. He was still a fair distance from them, but not so far that he couldn’t be reached. “I will need you to lower me to him, and after you’ve taken him to safety, you can come back for me, unless you have a better idea. I am receptive to any suggestion.”

Uriong shook his head. “It seems a sound plan, to me.”

Nodding, Belorfilad continued, “It is necessary that I climb partially over you. Do not take it personally.” He grinned, and began to lower himself farther.

Perhaps I *wish* to take it personally, Uriong thought wickedly, and then pushed the thought from his mind. He had to concentrate on his Prince’s rescue for now, but later ….. later, he would have to let the good Mirkwood Captain know how enticing his words had been; the fair warrior had caught his attention from the moment they’d met.

Belorfilad had just disentangled his leg from the rope, and was about to tell Uriong to grasp his ankle so that he could swing down and scoop the Prince into his arms. A gale-force wind chose that precise moment to swell and rush past them, plucking the rope like a drawn bowstring, and causing it to snap out of the hands of the Mirkwood Captain. He fell headlong toward the ledge below, but Uriong, with the swift reflexes characteristic to his race, reached out and caught the blonde Elf powerfully by the leg. He felt something pull and grind sickeningly in his hands, and when he heard Belorfilad’s anguished cry of pain, he knew. His leg had been dislocated. Uriong quickly moved his grip to the other leg.

“Belorfilad, are you all right? Oh gods, I am sorry, my friend.”

After several seconds, the blonde Captain replied in a voice tight with pain, “Do not be sorry. If you had not caught me, I would now be lying beside Prince Isalith, with a broken neck. There is no need for an apology.” Looking down, he felt a thrill of triumph. His head was hanging only twelve inches from the ground, and he reached out to gently lift Isalith into his arms.

“I have him!” he called to Uriong, before curling his upper body toward the Ilandrian warrior, who took Isalith and carefully draped him over his shoulder. He looked uncertainly at Belorfilad, unsure what to do next.

The blonde Captain noted this and said, “We stick to the plan. Take Prince Ith ath above, and I will wait here.”

It sickened Uriong to do it, but he knew it was the only way; he couldn’t carry them both. He lowered Belorfilad as close as he could to the ledge below. “Brace yourself,” he cautioned, before gradually releasing his grasp on the Captain’s leg. He grimaced when he heard the small whimper of pain that escaped Belorfilad’s lips when he fell onto his side, and he admired him greatly. A lesser Elf would’ve screamed.

The Ilandrian warrior called to the Elven Guard at the top of the cliff, and they pulled him up carefully. When he was close to the lip of the drop-off, he handed the Prince to the others, before ordering them to lower him again.

King Tyrion would now do what needed to be done for his son, and Uriong found that he couldn’t get back to Belorfilad quickly enough. The Mirkwood Guard had risked his life to save a Prince to whom he owed no allegiance; to Uriong, that was a sign of exceptional character.

He smiled softly to himself as he descended. Now the handsome Captain truly *did* have his attention.


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tirmo: guard