Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

The Last Wood Elf	By : Mel99Moe Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 4551 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters or places. No money is being made from this story.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
Chapter 19 - Eye for an eye

Legolas was now nineteen, considered a man amongst the Rohirrim … still only a child to an elf, had there been any elves to help raise him. Unfortunately, that was not the case, and Legolas grew and matured alongside his companions. He had finished his duties as a watchtower guard, and was entering into the league of soldiers to help maintain the borders outside of the city walls. He had plenty of time to think and to prepare. He honed in on his archery skills, his weapon of choice. Legolas’ aim was deadly. There was no one better with a longbow. He still used Folvar’s weapon, gifted to him by the Woodsman upon bringing the elf to Rohan. The bow was sturdy, and he knew it well, as if it were a part of his body.

Théodred was now Second Marshall of the Mark, and in command of the Rohirrim army. He appointed Eomer as a captain, in charge of his own battalion, and Legolas would serve under Eomer’s command.

On this latest tour, the army was heading for a section of the Eastfold, along the Great West Road, and close to the old city of Aldburg. Orc sightings had been reported in this section of Rohan. Théodred was sending Eomer and his men out to patrol the area. This would be Legolas’ first time at the borders with the Rohirrim army, and he knew that he was more than ready to face any challenge.

They were dressed in full Rohirric armor, deep red leather chest plate with dual gold horses rearing up on their hindquarters and facing one another. Beneath the armor, they wore long chainmail tunics that hung below the knees. Thick trousers and black boots finished the look. It was heavy and it was hot. Legolas could understand why the horses had to be so well trained. They must learn to hold a lot of weight for long periods of time.

“Are you ready for your first tour at the borders?” Eomer asked, as he sat upon Firefoot next to Legolas and Arod.

Legolas smiled to his friend, “I’ve looked forward to this day for a long time, Eomer.”

“And what about Arod?” Eomer laughed, “There were a few times I thought this day would never come.”

“He was quite a challenge wasn’t he, but he is just as ready as I am.” Legolas reached forward and patted the dapple-grey horse’s thick neck, praising him in elvish.

As they rode out further along the way, Legolas took in the view. It was much more beautiful than the way anyone had explained it. There were flat plains of tall grasses and wildflowers, rolling hills covered in a carpet of green, and more stands of trees than he had realized. He suddenly longed to walk beneath the shaded boughs of those trees, free of his armor, and in nothing more than the skin he was born with. Surely, there was a pond or a cool stream where he could swim and listen to the trees speaking their slow quiet language. But he was not amongst the trees nor would he be any time soon. He was a border guard for one of the proudest countries of men he had the honor of knowing. He was coming into his own as a soldier at a time when talks of darkness and deceit were closing in on his foster country.

They had set up and made camp along the foothills of the mountains. Orcs were said to have been seen traveling along the mountain paths not far from here. Once the battalion was established, they would begin their patrol.

Legolas did not like the feel of the looming mountains. He seemed to sense the wretchedness that they housed. This made the other men feel a bit on edge. They knew Legolas, being an elf, would be more perceptive to danger. Some of the younger soldiers watched him carefully, waiting for any sign that he might give. The more seasoned warriors did not pay him any mind. They knew this was Legolas’ first time on patrol, and figured it was just nerves. So many new soldiers behaved in such a way as it was. Why would the elf be any different?

Eomer noticed the ripple of tension that ran through his troops, and it did not take him long to find the source. He approached Legolas soon after the camp had been made, “Would you like to take first watch tonight?”

“I might as well. I do not think I’ll be sleeping anyways,” Legolas said, and he leaned close so no one else would hear, “They know we are here, Eomer.”

“I figured that much, but I’m glad to have your confirmation. How far, do you know?”

Legolas lifted his head and sniffed the light breeze, “They are downwind from us, and it is hard to tell. I guess the orcs are not as dumb as we make them out to be.”

“They will not strike tonight, nor anytime soon, I imagine. They know we are on alert. That’s one thing about orcs, they don’t like outright confrontation … sneaky bastards that they are. They’ll wait until our guard is down, when they see they have more advantage. Cowards, the lot of them.” Eomer obviously had had dealings with them before. He looked towards the setting sun, “Better get something to eat before night settles in, Legolas.”

* * *

Eomer had been right about the orcs. It had been a week, and there were no signs of them anywhere. The men started to relax after just a few days, letting their guards down. Legolas learned to contain his emotions, so as not to affect the soldiers, but he was always on alert. The orcs were still there, a faceless enemy amongst the grey stony mountains. It was just a matter of time before they came down from their hiding spots, and when they did, Legolas would be ready.

He was sitting by the fire, listening to the older soldiers tell stories about past battles. It was interesting to hear their accounts, and it gave Legolas a better idea of what to expect from the fighting Rohirrim. They were quite ruthless warriors, he thought. They would charge into battle without a thought but for their families, or lie in ambush and spring upon their enemies. Those seemed to be the battles that they enjoyed the most, if one could call it such a thing. It almost seemed like a game to them. The men knew there was a very good chance with every fight that they would not come through it alive or in one piece. When they were successful, they shrugged off their victory with an air of indifference, and claimed that it just wasn’t their time, but maybe next time it would be.

The evening was getting along, and more men joined the talk. Legolas had taken up patrolling during the late night/early morning hours, when the men seemed the least alert and their minds played tricks on them. Legolas was ever conscious and alert though, another advantage to his elvish heritage. He enjoyed these times with the men, getting to know them, and something about their families. Talk always turned to home as their supper filled and settled in their bellies.

This night, though, talk of home turned to talk of the King, and his unusual behavior. The men were wary of the changes they saw, and most came to the same conclusion. Grima was somehow involved. Eomer had agreed with this, of course, and told of his attempts to sway some of Théoden’s decisions, which he thought were unfounded.

“It is not until you’ve been away for a while that you notice the differences,” one man said, “Edoras does not shine as it once did. Something tarnishes its golden halls.”

“And when was the last time the King addressed his people? I can’t say the last time I saw him. He keeps himself locked away,” said another.

“No one sees him without the presence of Grima either,” said a young soldier, “My father said his farm suffers from lack of supplies. He did his best by using seeds saved from his previous crops, but it is not enough. He does his best to remain self-sustaining, but not everything can be found in Edoras, and those are the things that have been looked over.”

“And the blacksmiths,” added a fourth man, “Tell us, Eomer, what was the reason for that decision?”

Eomer addressed the man, “Théodred and I both have spoken to him on many occasions about that. I disagree completely, but the King will not see our concerns. He is very adamant about his choice to send them to Helm’s Deep, along with our continued depleting armories. Unless a man can make his own weapons, there will be no new ones at hand.”

The man who started the conversation stood to make his point, “And what of Théodred? It is obvious that the King is not in his right mind. The Prince is next in command. Why does he not take over some of the decision making?”

Legolas spoke then, to answer for Eomer, “The King is old and maybe a bit feeble, but he still gives the commands. For Théodred to overthrow his rulings would be treason.”

Eomer stood from his seat and joined Legolas’ side, “However, Théodred works on his own to some degree, and so do I. Now, I am not saying that we would ignore a direct order from the King, but we sometimes make smaller, less obvious decisions without his approval.”

There was a hushed gasp among the men, and Eomer held up a hand to quiet them before the questions began, “Let me make this very clear. We are still loyal to the King. The fact is, we have taken a few matters into our own hands, very subtly mind you. Edoras must not be left vulnerable.”

“What do you plan to do then?” asked someone from group of gathered men.

“First, I would ask where your allegiance lies. Is it with your King or with your country?” Eomer asked.

A low murmur broke about over the crowd, and Eomer continued, “I know what you are thinking, one goes along with the other, but I am here to tell you that I have witnessed my uncle’s deterioration up close, and I have also seen the influence Grima has over him. Théoden takes his suggestions seriously, and most of the time he agrees with his chief advisor. I have told you that even his own son has no say anymore. I don’t know how yet, but Grima holds sway over every order that comes from the King, and there are some things that I cannot, in my right mind, agree with.” Eomer stopped a moment and let his words sink in with the crowd before continuing, “I love my uncle very much, but I have sworn an oath to my country. Knowing what I know, I feel I’m left with no choice but to go against some of the King’s decisions, merely for the fact that I think it puts Rohan and its people in harm’s way. Now, I’ll ask once more … who do you serve, your King or your country?”

One by one, the men spoke until they were chanting as a unified group, “Rohan! Rohan!”

Legolas watched as Eomer united his men, feeling great admiration for his friend. Eomer glanced over to where Legolas stood and bowed his head. Legolas placed his hand over his heart and bowed in return to his captain. Eomer’s troops would remain loyal to their captain from here on out. This was very important to him and Théodred as well, since they were preparing to send out an order not approved by the King. They were ordering some of the blacksmiths back to Edoras to begin restocking the armories.

When the men calmed, Eomer explained this to his battalion. Everyone was in agreement, even if Théoden was not involved. “As long as we do this discreetly and without Grima finding out, I think it can be done.”

One of the men standing in the back made his way up to the front where Eomer stood, and addressed his captain with his concerns, “There has been talk, Sir, of a group of people within Edoras who do not follow Théoden or Rohan. They are loyal to only one person … Grima. Now, when I heard this, I did not believe it, for I’ve found no one who does not get a shiver up their spine when they speak of Wormtongue. But I’m here to tell you that I have seen them. They do well to stay separate from each other, so as not to draw attention, and they visit Grima alone, never as a group. I’ve kept my eyes and ears open, and I think I know who some of them are. They are are guards stationed about the city. One or two of them are door guards for the Golden Hall itself.”

Legolas leaned towards Eomer’s ear, “Spies.”

“I knew Grima did not work alone,” Eomer whispered back, and then he addressed the rest, “This is why we remain loyal to Rohan and each other. It is not just us, it’s our family’s lives at stake. I don’t like the fact that these traitors live amongst my loved ones, but we have to be careful for now. We will do our duty, otherwise we will do what we must. Our goal is to rid Edoras of Grima Wormtongue and his henchmen, to find proof of his wickedness and make our King see him for what he is … a conniving slimy snake.”

The men cheered to that statement, and Eomer’s plan was set into motion. When the group dispersed and went about their business, Eomer retired to his tent, calling Legolas to follow him. The elf closed the flap behind him so they could speak privately.

“Did you know about these spies?” Eomer asked.

“I did not. I have been busy keeping my eye on Grima and watching out for your sister. Who do you suppose they are?”

Eomer shook his head, “I can assume they are not from Rohan.”

“They could have come at any time. There are new settlers arriving all the time, especially with the increasing attacks in the East Fold and West Fold,” Legolas informed.

“Do you suppose they are Dunlendings?” Eomer asked.

“That would be my first guess. They could fit in rather easily within Rohan and not raise any suspicions. Still, there is one thing that bothers me,” Legolas said with concern, “These spies work for Grima, I have no doubt, but Grima is not acting alone. There is something much larger at work here. Exiling Grima will not be enough. I think that whoever is sending out the orc troops is also aiding Grima with whatever he is using to weaken Théoden.”

“We need to capture and interrogate our enemy then. We must find out where they get their orders,” Eomer concluded.

Legolas smiled, “Leave that to me.”

* * *

It was the darkest hour of the night, just before the sunrise. The men in the camp were asleep in their tents or by the fire. Legolas was standing guard, as well as two other men. There was a slight breeze blowing, stirring a tent flap here or there. Legolas became accustomed to the sounds of the men and their camp. It was his elvish heritage that gave him the ability to perceive the slightest sounds that did not belong, a scrape or a rustle of something metal, a stone tumbling down the mountainside, a whisper that could easily be mistaken as the wind blowing. But there was one thing unmistakable to his heightened elvish senses, the pungent stench of orc.

Legolas looked to the other two guards. Neither one was alarmed. They had not smelled it yet. Legolas thought that if the orcs were close enough for him to smell them, then they must be close enough to see the camp. Slowly and without urgency, he strolled over to the man closest to him and whispered, “They are coming. Go warn the others, but do it quietly. Tell the men to arm themselves, but to look as if they are unaware of the threat. We want the orcs to think they can ambush the camp.”

The man nodded and walked unhurriedly into the camp. He began rousing the men from their sleep and relaying Legolas’ message. The elf went to the second guard on patrol and told him to go and inform Eomer. Then Legolas took up his place on a nearby boulder, and watched and listened for further movement, “Clumsy orcs,” he said to himself. To his sensitive ears, it sounded like a heard of horses coming down from the mountains. They were fooling no one.

The closer they got, the faster Legolas’ heart beat. This would be it, his first battle at the borders. How long had he trained for this moment? He was more than ready. His bow felt heavy in his hands. He reached back and felt the soft fletching of his arrows, quiver full. His twin long knives were securely sheathed at his back. Tonight he would solidify his place amongst the Rohirrim. He would spill blood, his first step to seeking revenge for the loss of his home and family.

Legolas jumped down from his lookout post, and casually strolled back to the camp. His ears were trained on the rocky crevices behind him. The orcs were there, waiting and watching for the right moment to attack. Legolas’ blood was singing. His hand gripped his bow tightly as he carried it by his side. It would not be long now.

At the camp, it was almost a hilarious sight. The men looked as though they slept. A few even went so far as to make snoring sounds. At a closer look, Legolas could see that they held their swords at their sides, ready to jump up and fight at a moment’s notice. As he walked along, he made whispering remarks to the men, advising them from which way the orcs were moving. Then he circled around, and found himself back at the bolder, pretending to make his rounds about the camp. He kept his back to the rocks and listened. Closer … closer still … just one more moment, a deep breath and—

Legolas raised his bow, nocked an arrow and spun around in one motion. Orcs were pouring into the camp from their hiding spots. He took down as many as he could, firing arrow after arrow while they were still at a distance. Seeing their comrades fall, the orcs spread out quickly and made their way around the edge of the men’s camp, but as they entered, they were surprised by the sudden movement of sleeping men. Swords in hand, each soldier jumped to his feet, and struck out at their unsuspecting enemy. The first of the orcs fell quickly. Now the camp was a battle ground, men against orcs, and an elf as an added advantage.

Metal struck metal all around him. Legolas stood on his boulder where he could shoot more orcs with his arrows, but they were beginning to surround him. He twisted left and then right, his bow singing from the released arrows, until something grabbed his ankle and knocked him off his feet. He managed to brace himself during the fall, and scrambled to stay upon the boulder, but he felt many hands grasping at his legs, pulling him down to the ground. Legolas kicked his feet, felt the crunch of a broken nose or jaw, and reached for his knives. It was so dark, he could barely make them out, but their yellowed eyes and fangs flashed above him. He was on his back, in the dirt and a swarm of orcs were crowding in on him. Legolas released an angered yell and thrust his knives upwards, slicing flesh and hitting bone as he did. The orcs seemed to part, and the elf could see the stars above in the sky. In one swift movement, he leapt to his feet, and quickly took in his surroundings. Most of the orcs were fighting within the camp. The men would take care of those, but three remained by Legolas, watching him, dancing around him as if to confuse him. Legolas remembered his training and his lessons on distractions. He kept his eyes on the orcs he could see, and his ears tuned in to the one he could not. He took his stance, knives flashing in each hand.

“Come on then, which one of you will be first?” he taunted.

An orc with metal rings attached to the bridge of his nose came at Legolas, the black blade of his scimitar slicing through the air. He moaned and grunted as he approached. Legolas bounced on his feet, and judged the actions of the slow moving orc. The ringed orc lunged forward and Legolas dodged the blade, spun around and thrust his twin blades into the orc’s back. The orc went ridged as Legolas pushed the blades further into his body, gave the knives a twist and waited for the creature to fall, sliding off the blades. Two left, he thought to himself, and glanced around to see where they were. The second orc seemed ready to take his turn, but the third one puzzled Legolas. He seemed to be waiting, studying the elf, and watching him in a most peculiar way. No time to give it much thought now, Legolas told himself, and he turned to his next challenger.

This creature was even uglier than the first. He looked as if he’d already seen plenty of battles. There were open gashes on the side of his neck, crusted over and oozing pus where they had broken open. The side of his head was covered with a metal plate, and looked as if it was screwed directly into his skull. He noticed Legolas looking at it and laughed, tapping the metal with a small dagger in his left hand, “I’ve got me protection,” he said in broken Westron.

“So have I,” Legolas countered as he raised his long knives and crossed the blades.

The orc threw the dagger at Legolas, making the elf crouch down to avoid a hit. While he was distracted, the orc took the scimitar from his dead ring-nosed friend, “Now I’ve got two blades too.”

They circled each other, blades at the ready, and Legolas waited for him to make the first move. The metal plated orc charged, swinging both black blades. Legolas was blocking the blows with his long knives, left then right then left again. As they fought, Legolas backed away towards a tree that he had noticed earlier. He led the orc along until he backed into the tree trunk. The orc paused and laughed, thinking he had the advantage. This time, when the metal-headed orc swung his weapon, Legolas did not strike back. Instead, he slid down the tree to the ground, and the orc’s blade sunk into the tree. While the creature tried to pull his scimitar free, Legolas thrust his long knife upwards and into the belly of the beast. The orc released the embedded blade and stumbled backwards, looking down at the white handle protruding from his belly, but he ignored it, and pulled it from his body. Black gore covered the elvish weapon and dripped from the tip. Legolas only had one knife now, and the orc had two again.

The creature coughed and laughed, “Didn’t think about that, did you?” He charged Legolas with both weapons.

Legolas countered, fighting against the scimitar and his own weapon, a very surreal scenario, he thought to himself. Even with the wound, the orc fought ferociously, and Legolas was beginning to feel the strain of the battle, countering two weapons at once. His advantage was knowing his own sword and its design, so when the orc swung the long knife again, Legolas managed to lock handles for a split second, long enough to gain the upper hand. The orc used his scimitar, swiping it in a downward motion as if to lop off the elf’s head. Legolas released his long knife, spun out of the way of the scimitar, and reached over his shoulder for the last arrow in his quiver. He had no bow. That was left behind when he fell from the boulder, and it was too far to get to now. Instead, he thrust the arrow up from below the orcs chin and forced it by hand until he was sure he had impaled the beast’s brain. The orc convulsed, dropped Legolas’ long knife along with the scimitar, and fell limp to the ground.

Legolas took a moment to catch his breath, collect his stolen knife and find his bearings, but he had not forgotten about the third orc. He looked up slowly, lifting his eyes towards his final challenger. An arrogant laugh drifted across their personal battleground, and the sound made Legolas’ blood run cold. The voice was familiar to him.

“Who are you?” Legolas asked.

“Ah, ye remember me then. Good, I was hoping ye would, ‘cos I sure remember you … a bit bigger than ye were then, but I see it in the eyes. The same scared look now as ye had then,” the orc said.

Legolas observed his enemy with a careful eye, “Are you one of the filth that destroyed Mirkwood?”

“Mirkwood?” the orcs said surprised, “Ai, haven’t thought of that in a long while, but no that’s not where I seen ye, though I was in Mirkwood.” The orc crossed his arms, and put his fingers to his chin, contemplating, “I would have liked to have gone down in that hole of a place, and exterminated those immortal rats me self, but alas I was up above having me own fun. Helped set the trees alight, I did. Maybe ye’d seen my contributions that night, aye? Lit the whole place up right fancy like,” the orc laughed to himself.

“Na, what I’m talkin’ ‘bout is that poor excuse of a village.” His voice lowered to a deep threatening tone, as his arms came back down to his sides, “That’s where I’d seen ye, boy, hidin’ behind that tree. Killed one of my friends, ye did. Eye fer an eye though, right? Ye took my friend, so I took that tall fella’ ye’s with that night. Had his back turned to me, he did. Didn’t even know what hit ‘im, but you did, didn’t ye. Ye saw me in the trees, and I saw ye’s too. And now look at ye, all grown up and earned yer armor.”

Legolas could feel himself seething with anger at the mention of Elhadron and Mirkwood, but he kept himself in check, “Eye for an eye, you say. Then it must me my turn, and here you are.”

The orc charged at Legolas, but the elf was ready with long knives crossed, blocking the first blow. The orc was relentless at first, and Legolas was not able to get any hits in, but patience was one of his best qualities. He let the orc make all the first moves in hopes of wearing him down. It seemed to be working, for the orc’s movements began to slow a bit. When he saw his opportunity, Legolas struck with such force that it sent the orc flying backwards, shocked by the pure strength of his elven opponent. The fighting commenced, and now Legolas was the dominant fighter. The orc was reduced to blocking, but he was also watching closely and waiting for Legolas to make a mistake. It happened when Legolas left himself unprotected for a spit second, and the orc brought his blade up to the side and swung forward, slicing through the leather of Legolas’ pants.

Instantly the burning of the wound spread from his knee, up towards the inside of his thigh. Legolas had been cut by the orc’s blade. He could feel the warmth of blood begin to spread beneath the leather pant leg. His movements dragged and the orc was once again on the offensive. Legolas fought through the stinging pain of his leg. There was no room for distraction, especially not injury. He moved with elvish grace, and anyone watching would never have known that the inside of his thigh had been split open. His twin blades began to catch the orange light of the rising sun. Dawn was upon them. The orcs would give up the fight soon, unable to tolerate the bright rays of morning’s light.

Legolas wondered how the fighting was going amongst the men. He had not been a part of the main battle since taking on this group of orcs. He could still hear the clash of metal, though it seemed less than before. He only hoped it was still the Rohirrim blades that were ringing, and not that of their enemy.

The orc seemed distracted by the rising sun and his attacks became more urgent. He was intent upon killing Legolas, and fleeing for the cover of the mountains, where he could slither back into the dark crevices and caves. Blades swung high and swooshed low. Both opponents wore armor and the injuries were contained to blunt jabs and bruising blows. Then their blades locked and they stood face to face. Legolas sacrificed half of his defenses by releasing one of his long knives and elbowing the orc in the face. The orc stumbled backwards, tripped and fell to the ground. Legolas was instantly over the orc, the tip of his blade at the black vulnerable throat. Rage filled the elf’s azure eyes. His breath heaved, and his heart struggled to keep up with the adrenaline that filled every part of his being.

The orc laughed under his hurried breath as he laid on the ground at the elf’s feet, “I have to … to say, elves always put up a fight. Should have … have liked it better had ye just turned your back like the other did.”

Legolas kicked the orc in his ribs and said through clenched teeth, “That was my uncle you killed … and my father who was slain within the palace, but there is still one wood elf left, and I will have my revenge.” He put his blade to the orcs throat and pressed until a trickle of blood appeared.

“You’ll not win this war, boy, and ye’ll end up rotting in the ground like the others. Kill me, and more will come, and then they shall pave the road to victory with the bodies of every last elf in the world,” the orc claimed. Then he laughed and snorted, coughing as he did, “Your uncle, aye? It was a pleasure watching me arrow disappear into his back. What did his face look like, I wonder? Oh, but you were there, and ye saw it all firsthand. Did he speak to ye, boy? Did he gurgle and gasp for breath? Was the pain evident upon his fucking face? Ai, I’d give me left arm to have seen his face. That’s the best part of killin’ elves, the look they give ye as the soul leaves. It’s always a surprise to ‘em.” The orc looked straight into Legolas’ eyes, “It’ll happen to ye too, boy, when some orcs black blade sticks ye in yer fucking heart, and ye realize that ye can’t live forever.”

Legolas felt his whole body begin to shake with anger. His hand trembled, and the end of his blade was unsteady against the orc’s neck. He knew this was part of the orc’s tactic to throw him off his guard, but he had the advantage, “The last thing you’ll remember is the cold steel of my blade as it slices your miserable neck, you bastard,” he said and brought his elbow back, preparing to jab his blade through the orc’s neck.

“Legolas!” Eomer shouted from somewhere behind.

Legolas heard his friend call him, but all he wanted was to end the orc’s wretched life. He pulled his arm back again, and called to Eomer without taking his eyes from his enemy, “He has to die, Eomer. He admitted to killing my uncle.”

“No, Legolas, we need him alive … for now,” Eomer ordered as he came to stand beside Legolas. Eomer kicked the orc several times, weakening him. At a closer look, Eomer became concerned, “Are you an orc of Mordor or of the mountains. Where do you hail from, and who sent you to Rohan?”

The orc laughed an evil cackle, “You offend me, young captain. Mordor and Moria breed an incapable unintelligent lot. I am of a new generation of orcs, and we follow a new master, not the Dark Lord, but one who promises us dominance over all others.”

Eomer looked at Legolas, but the elf would not look away from his captive. Then he looked back at the orc, “If not Sauron, then who do you follow?”

“Why, the White Hand, of course. Ye might have known that if ye took yer head out of your horse’s arse long enough to notice,” the orc answered insultingly, “He breeds a new army, my army, and under his reign we shall rule Middle-earth.” The orcs eyes settled on Legolas again, “And you’ll be my personal slave, boy. What fun it will be to break you. Too bad I killed your uncle, though. I would have enjoyed having him on his knees before me, sticking me cock down his miserable throat, but your young mouth will be much more of a pleasure once I—” The orcs words were cut off by Legolas’ blade sinking slowly into the orcs vocal chords.

“Legolas, no!” Eomer protested, “As your captain, I order you to—”

“You’ve found out all that he knows. Now he is mine,” Legolas growled, ignoring a direct order as his blade pushed deeper into the orcs throat. The creature’s gnarled black hands flailed about as he tried to grasp the sword and stop it, but it was no use. Legolas’ strength was much greater than the average man. No one could have stopped him from his mission. Finally, the orc’s body began to convulse and shake. A puddle spread out from beneath him where his bladder had given way.

“Feel every inch of my blade, you murdering bastard,” Legolas hissed. The orc gasped for air that would not come, as his throat was blocked off by the silver blade of the elvish long knife. Suffocation was inevitable.

Eomer was stunned to see this side of Legolas. A swift death would have been more justified, but the elf wanted to see the enemy struggle for one last breath, grasping on to every last inch of life, and then listen as the last of the air escaped the lungs through the hole in the black throat.

Eomer and Legolas stood looking down at the unmoving black shape. Eomer shook his head, “We could have held him captive, and forced more information from him.”

“He told you all he knew. You would not have gotten anything more from him,” Legolas answered dryly as he wiped his blade on the orc’s shirt.

“What makes you think that? And why did you go against my orders? I may be your friend, Legolas, but out here I am your captain,” Eomer demanded. He should have been furious, but the killing made Eomer remember his own hatred for those responsible for his mother and father’s deaths. He might not have behaved any differently had he had the intimacy of coming face to face with his own private foes. In fact, he would have been just as lethal and brutish, if not more. Justice had in fact been served.

“I know because of something he said. He was involved in the burning of Mirkwood’s forest, not in the raid upon the palace. He was nothing more than a low ranking soldier. He would have known nothing but that he followed the commands of the White Hand.” Legolas turned to Eomer and caught his eye, “The White Hand, Eomer … not the White Wizard or Saruman. He would have claimed his master by name had he been any higher in ranks.”

Eomer turned from Legolas and whistled. Two of his men came running up, “Dispose of this filth. Let the vultures have him.”

The soldiers started to reach for the orcs arms and legs, to lift him and carry him off, when suddenly the body began to move and gurgle. The men dropped him, shocked to see that he was still alive. Without a moment’s thought, Legolas raised his blade above his head, and with a primal yell, brought his weapon down with such force that the orc’s head came clean off, and rolled a few feet from the body. The men were stunned as they watched the head wobble before it finally came to rest. Eomer looked at Legolas with surprise by his quick reflexes and strength, but Legolas just shrugged his shoulders, “For Elhadron,” he whispered, and looked towards the direction of Isengard, where Saruman ruled, “And next will be for Mirkwood.”

Eomer gave Legolas a hard slap on the shoulder and shook his head, “Welcome to the war, Legolas.”

As the two friends started to walk away, Eomer noticed Legolas’ limp, and threw an arm around his friend, “Let’s get you to the healer.”

“Ai,” said Legolas, flinching and finally giving in to his injuries, “Good idea.”

The wound was cleaned and bandaged. Legolas was lucky not to have been poisoned. He would heal quickly. Eomer and his troops followed out their orders. More orcs attacked, but Rohan did not falter. Eomer and Legolas were eager to get this new information about Saruman back to Théodred, but they did not trust a messenger to deliver it. This was something they wanted to do themselves once they had rejoined the rest of Rohan’s armies and Théodred. At least, now they knew from where their enemy ruled. It was a shock to learn that it was someone King Théoden had considered a friend. Now it was a matter of figuring out how to approach Isengard and put a stop to the madness, with or without Théoden’s approval.
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The Last Wood Elf