Lomelinde Lire: Nightingale Song

Lomelinde Lire: Nightingale Song

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Lord of the Rings was written by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Legolas/Lomelinde.

Distribution: Sure, just let me know.

Feedback: Is always nice. rhiarhiannon@aol.com

Rating: R for death, fighting, and sex.

Author's Note: I wrote this for Crunchberry, who wanted a Legolas fiction. Lomelinde (Nightingale) is my own creation. I have never written anything based in LoTR before, so goodness knows what this will turn out to be. –Rhi

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Legolas crept silently through the underbrush, his footfalls unnoticeable despite the brittle twigs and leaves littering the ground. All of his keen senses were focused upon his prey…a particularly wily orc, Tarn, who had led an attack upon a northern settlement of elves and killed all but one.

At last, the elf drew near the cave in which Tarn had taken refuge from the burning daylight. Legolas had little hope that the survivor yet lived—elves rarely survived capture by orcs—their hatred was too powerful. Orcs took obscene and obsessive pleasure in tormenting elves to death, rejoicing as the light went out of eternal eyes forever.

Tarn had shown little compunction about killing the entire small settlement of elves—tormenting them one by one during the night when his orcish company had arrived. Elrond had bidden Legolas to save those he could, but the warning had come too late and the elf had arrived only to face the grim task of burying his brethren’s maimed and tortured bodies.

Hunting orcs these many years had hardened the youthful-looking elf—hardened him to the point that he could barely stand to dwell with his lighter-hearted brethren. Their eyes, so pure and discerning, seemed to pierce through to the darkness that had begun to grow within him as he was forced, time and again, to slay bands of orcs and deal with the twisted remains they left behind.

Legolas never complained of the burden, at least, never within Elrond’s hearing, but the elder elf knew that his young protégé had long grown weary of the toil he accepted so valiantly.

Legolas could tell as he’d tracked them, that the orcs were carrying more than loot. He’d found a simple yet elegant ring of elvish design and later, shreds of fine cloth from garments similar to his own. Or at least those garments he’d once worn long ago, before his entire being had been transformed into an instrument of cleansing and retribution for his people. Now he wore leathers so worn that they flowed with his every movement like a second skin. No more the long robes and mantles favored by his people or the ornate hair clips and brooches they loved so well. Legolas was a weapon and could not afford snagging jewelry or dangling fabric. He was as simple and elegant as a sharp-honed blade…and as deadly.

Now, as the elf drew near to the foul cave in which his prey cavorted, his keen ears quickly discerned the pain-wracked cries of a female elf. A female…he’d not thought that even possible. The orcs had tortured all of the elves he’d found unmercifully—putting out eyes and ripping out tongues before flaying the skin and flesh from their slender bodies. It was inconceivable that one of the delicately reared and gentle elf matrons might have lived through such treatment of her family and friends.

Of all the elves he knew, Arwen was the only female who’d fought orcs, and even her fierce and loving warrior’s spirit had quailed from the aftermath. Elessar and she had disappeared for days thereafter and the shadows still haunted her lovely eyes at the memory.

Legolas was sorely tempted to just rush into the cave and fight to stop the continued abuse he heard. The sound of a whip striking flesh and the agonized groans that followed each strike were nearly more than he could bear. But getting himself killed would not help her, whoever the poor matron was. Her mate must have fallen in the fight for her to be taken like this.

He crept closer to the cave and spotted the back of the sentry posted therein. The brutish orc was turned to face into the cave—his attention riveted on the evil tableau within. The distraction became his doom as Legolas reached him in one lithe leap and whipped the razor sharp edge of his long-knife across the orc’s neck in a motion faster than any eyes but his own could have followed.

He drew the orc’s carcass carefully out of the cave and moved slowly inside, narrowing his eyes to force their quick adjustment to the dim light within. Four more orcs were all that was left of the raiding party—four orcs and his adversary, Tarn.

Legolas locked their places in his mind and drew his bow, knocking and releasing four arrows faster than any but he could have managed. The four targeted orcs fell in seconds, dead from the well-placed arrows that flew without fail. As Legolas pulled to fire the fifth arrow, however, Tarn turned and used his blood-soaked and filthy whip to knock the bow from Legolas’s grasp. The elf cursed and leapt for the orc, drawing his twin swords as he did so.

One quick snap to the left allowed him to whip the blade’s edge through the blood-soaked cord that secured the female elf to an out-cropping in the cave. She fell to the floor in a heap, but he was unable to assist her as he jabbed at the orc with the other blade, only to be countered with somewhat alarming speed. Legolas realized that he would actually have a fight on his hands now. He smiled with feral glee and attacked in earnest. The orc was well-armed with elvish blades taken from the fallen victims of his attacks and Legolas snarled with rage at the sight.

His fleetness of foot was more than a match for the misshapen orc’s, but Tarn, sensing his own danger, responded with brutal strength to each attack the elf made. The orc slashed and lunged at the slighter elf and Legolas parried with consummate grace and skill.

The battle raged on as behind them the elf whom Legolas sought to free pulled herself upright to stand on shaking legs. She stumbled forward and fell to her knees, bleeding from the livid marks of the whip that had scored her from neck to knee and left one blazing cut across the pale perfection of her right cheek. She crawled forward, uncaring of the pain that beat through her body, intent on one thing only. The sword worn by one of the orcst wat was her father’s. She’d been forced to watch as they first tortured and then killed him, despite his valor and skill in the battle. His sword had taken down fifteen of the filthy orcs before their numbers overwhelmed him. They had punished him accordingly. She reached the orc and struggled with shaking hands to grasp the sword and pull it from the foul belt of the dead thing. She succeeded and pulled herself up to stumble with determined feet toward the fray.

Five days and nights tracking and following the filthy beasts who were his prey had taken their toll on Legolas’s strong, slender body. His foe fought with the air of one well-rested, well-fed, and mad, besides. Legolas fought back with every ounce of the skill, grace and courage that had made him his people’s main orc hunter for over 700 years.

They parried and clashed, circled and feinted, totally absorbed in the fight and each other until, by mere chance, Tarn had his back to his once victim. Without a word, she threw herself forward to bury her father’s sword in the filthy back of her chief tormenter. She pulled the blade from his body and struck again and again, all in utter silence. Legolas was struck by the fierce hatred that shown from her blood-crusted face—the hatred and raw pain that screamed from her despite her total silence.

At last, there was nothing left of the orc but bloody bits, hacked pieces, and gore that had spattered both elves from head to toe. The nameless elf stood, shaking like a leaf in the wind and slowly raised haunted eyes to stare at Legolas. Her face was blank, making the anguish trapped in her eyes all the more powerful, and Legolas sheathed his swords abruptly and took one hesitant step toward her with cautiously outstretched hand.

She looked at his hand and then down at her own—covered in blood and gore—and she dropped the sword and fell to her knees, voicing the first sound he’d heard from her since he’d entered the cave. It was a long, wailing, unearthly keen, starting low and rattling in his bones and ears with preternatural power before she drew breath to begin again. She shook from head to toe—her delicate frame looking as though it might shake apart in the storm of her grief. Her hands went to her long dark hair, ripping at it and clawing at her face until Legolas moved forward and crouched near her, grabbing her hands to keep her from harming herself further.

Legolas was shocked at the tenderness that swept through him at the sight of the little elf. She was small-boned and fragile in his arms as he pulled her closer and let her keen out all of the grief and despair that wracked her small frame. At last, long moments later, he felt her waver and then go limp in his arms and he realized that she’d lost consciousness at last.

He lifted her slight body into his arms and carried her from the cave without a backward glance, moving through the shaded woods quickly and silently until he came to a small copse of trees near a creek that ran lazily through a sunny clearing. Legolas laid the little elf down gently on the mossy ground next to the creek and hurried to remove hick. ck. From it, he pulled a small covered kettle, which he filled from the creek, and a clean rag, which he dipped in the sparkling water. He turned back to her and began carefully cleaning the dirt and gore from her face.

Legolas hissed when he reached the weeping whip mark that scored her cheek and hastened to clean it softly and carefully. When at last it bled clean, he rooted around in his pack for another clean rag, which he pressed to the wound after spreading unguent gently into the cut.

Her face was young, too young to be elf-matron even with their deceptively youthful faces. This must be a maiden, and fair indeed was she. Her jet-black hair, even gore-spattered as it was, was lovely, long and full. Her lips, though bruised, were beautiful—a dark coral in color. He wondered what color her eyes were. Dark elves were uncommon in this area—Elrond and Arwen the only he knew who weren’t as fair as he himself.

Legolas turned his attention unwillingly to the rest of the maiden’s body and quickly determined that the only thing he d dod do was carry her into the pool and bathe her in it. The filth and gore covering her would not yield to his small rags and he needed her clean before he could treat the remaining wounds she carried. Stripping cloak, gore-encrusted vest, shirt and boots from himself and leaving them by the side of the creek, Legolas lifted the naked body of the elf maid in his arms and stepped with her into the stream. It turned an angry red at their intrusion and the maiden moaned in his arms as he rinsed her limbs in the sun-warmed water. Kneeling in the shallows, Legolas swept the fingers of one hand through her long, dark hair, cleaning it of debris and blood before moving that hand downward to clean her battered body the same way. He stroked carefully over her wounded belly, frowning at the lash marks that marred her perfect skin. Moving his hand lower, he cleaned her hips with precise care before moving his hand between her long, pale legs.

The slow current washed away the dirt and blood, leaving her bare to his concerned gaze. She was slender and well-formed to his eyes and he felt a blush suffuse his face as he bathed her so intimately. Glancing up at her face, Legolas was startled to see two dark eyes staring back at him.

She had woken to find her body in the arms of a fierce elf mahtar (warrior), the same who’d slaughtered the orcs who had taken her captive, she realized. She knew him immediately, for even in her remote settlement, word had spread of Legolas, Orc’s Bane, who protected the Eldalie (the Elves) in these perilous times. Never would she have thought to actually meet such a one as he, and she flinched from his gaze, certain that he must find her revolting. Her hands fluttered to cover her small, high breasts, and she ducked her head to avoid his piercing gaze.

“Pitya Onone (little sister), forgive me,” he said, and the blood flamed in her face at his voice. “I do not mean you harm, little one, I merely thought to clean your wounds.”

“Mahtar, the fault is mine,” she replied, still not meeting his eyes. “I am sorry to have caused you such trouble.” She tried to pull from him and stand, but her wounded body had not the strength and she fell back into his arms.

Legolas lifted her and stepped carefully to the bank, laying her on clean moss and reaching for more unguent. He knelt beside her supine form and spread the salve carefully into her now-clean wounds. The whip marks marred her body with livid red weals, some oozing blood, some not. She was very still under his hand, not flinching from him despite her obvipainpain. He was awed by her control under such dire circumstances. It was he who flushed as he spread the salve into the shallow wound on her inner thigh and then into the dark curls at the apex of her slender legs. That mark was a wicked one, and had seared her from hipbone to (he blushed harder) mound. He took care with it, worried that even with elvealinaling she might scar if he weren’t careful.

At last he had anointed all her wounds and he dug in his pack yet again for clothing for her. He found a clean shirt and helped her into it—its length and breadth on her such that it nearly became a robe. She huddled within it and flinched visibly from him and he looked down at himself, half-clad and wet from the stream.

“You are wounded, as well, Mahtar,” she said, her soft voice music to his ears despite the situation. “Allow me to care for you as you have done for me.” Legolas stilled under her gentle hands as she soothed the salve into the shallow wound on his left arm before sliding lower to stroke it into the deeper cut on his abdomen. His skin felt as if it were on fire under her touch and he turned his face from her that she might not notice his discomfiture.

“What is your name, Onone?” he asked, and she stared at him in reawakened horror. Images of her tiny settlement--her dead kin--swirled before her eyes and she recoiled from him in shame.

“I was...atar (father) called me…I was Lomelinde (Nightingale) but I have no songs left now. They have been crushed underfoot. I shall sing no more. Call me…Piucca (Berry)…instead.”

Legolas nodded in sad understanding. “I am Legolas,” he said, “of the Eldalie taure (forest elves), Heri Piucca (Lady Berry). I am most honored to make your acquaintance.”

Berry blushed a pale pink at his gallantry and Legolas smiled at her shyness. “I have masta (bread) and lis (honey),” he said. “Will you join me in breaking my fast, Pitya Onone?”

She nodded and they settled themselves in the sun to eat the hearty bread and honey that Legolas pulled from his pack. Berry pushed at her hair as the masses of ebon dried, threatening to envelop her face as they did so.

“I…I have a comb, if you will, Onone,” Legolas murmured, unwilling to see her discomfited in any way. “May I, that is, I know you are weary, Pitya Onone. Will you allow me to help you?” He hesitated to even ask, but she looked too tired to comb out the long tresses herself.

Berry nodded gratefully. “I would be most grateful, Heru Legolas, I thank you.”

He laughed, “No Lord am I, Onone. Just a poor warrior trying to keep Eldalie safe.” He pulled the finely wrought bone comb from his pack and inched closer to the diminutive elf, smoothing his hand through the cloud of her hair and separating one section to comb. He worked through the knee-length locks one at a time, neatly plaiting them for her as he continued.

Berry sighed in sensual appreciation of his sure and gentle touch. This morning, she’d been certain that her life would end before she even saw her 500th year and now, here she was, safe, fed, and clean, with this handsome elven warrior combing gently through her hair. She relaxed and slowly leaned into him as her tired body fell into a soothing and much needed sleep.

Legolas continued his gentle ministrations until Berry slept in earnest and all of her hair was neatly combed and plaited into one long, thick rope. Then he simply sat and held her slight body, basking in the sunshine and, for once, not questioning whether he had done right in his slaughter of the orcs.

To be continued…