My Warriors, My Beloveds

Chapter 8: Strength of Soul

Northern Mirkwood: 29th of March, 2969
Pre-Dawn

Harry’s eyes wearily twitched open.

He did not remember falling asleep, and neither his body nor his mind felt rejuvenated at all. His pale skin was dull in the early light before morning, his green eyes glazed. He knew he did not have long before his soul departed.

Harry listlessly took in the scene before him. Most of the orcs were asleep or dozing, but the Witch-
king of Angmar sat near the fire, surrounded by Khamul and three more Nazgul.

The Elf tried to drudge up the will to care, but all he felt was a dull ache in his chest. So he simply rested his head back against the post he was still tied to, closing his eyes and trying not to think about a lifeless Thorongil.

He could not wait to see the Grey Havens.

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The Witch-king of Angmar looked upon his pretty little Elf. The Bearer was forcing himself to Fade, probably using the supposed death of the Ranger to overwhelm himself in grief.

The leader of the Ringwraiths smirked cruelly to himself. He had left those Men alive on purpose.

Love was always sweetest when destroyed by betrayal, and not by death.

The Elf would not be allowed to Fade, and the pretty thing would kneel at his side for eternity knowing that his love had left him to his fate.

It was almost time.

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Legolas’s pale grey eyes continued to study Harry’s form. The light was slowly seeping from his skin and eyes, and the prince could see the pain deep in those beautiful emerald orbs. He could barely stand watching Harry Fade before his very eyes, but they needed to wait until the sun rose.

Legolas took a deep breath, eyes latched onto the weak rise and fall of his love’s chest. He prayed that Harry had the strength of soul needed to live through this terrible ordeal.

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Meanwhile…

Aragorn opened still-feverish eyes, feeling a bit better after his rest.

Though his wound was still seeping blood, and his limbs felt heavy, Aragorn quickly mounted his horse and began following the tracks once again.

He had not meant to sleep so long, but he would need the extra strength for the battle he knew was ahead.

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As the first rays of light illuminated the clearing, Legolas and the Elves made their move.

In unison, they strung their bows, aiming to take out the orcs first. Their numbers were about even, so one well-timed, well-aimed volley would slay most of the large group of vicious creatures.

Glorfindel was the only Elf not to string his bow. He removed his sword from its sheath, allowing Legolas to give the signal when to attack.

With a nod from their prince, the Elves surrounding the clearing let their arrows fly strong and true.

The battle was on.

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Harry opened blurry eyes as the sound of metal piercing flesh and the rotten scent of orc-blood filled the air.

His vision was dark around the edges, but he made out golden hair gleaming in the early morning light.

Elves…

Legolas…

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Bodies of orcs lay motionless, covering most of the clearing with their corpses. Glorfindel cut a swath through the attacking wargs, quickly sending their bodies to join those of the orcs as he made his way towards the four dark-robed figures of the Nazgul.

He had promised Legolas their leader.

So Glorfindel would keep the undead minions occupied while Legolas engaged in a solo battle and the remaining Elves worked to remove the stain of every last orc and warg from Mirkwood Forest.

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“Face me, you coward!” Legolas shouted, sword cutting off the head of yet another orc blocking his path to the Witch-king.

“You amuse me so, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood,” the cruel creature murmured, sure that the Elf’s sensitive ears would catch his comment. “Fighting now for the love you so cruelly cast aside.”

Legolas faltered for a moment at the words, eyes shooting towards Harry’s listless figure.

A warg tried to take advantage of his distraction, leaping up to tackle him, just for the prince’s sword to pierce through the soft skin of his inner mouth to his brain, killing him instantly.

“You know nothing of which you speak!” Legolas snarled, finally facing the Witch-king of Angmar with nothing but air and armor between them.

Legolas and the Witch-king circled each other warily, each with sword drawn and wary eyes. The leader of the Nazguls smirked wickedly at the elf-prince before thrusting forward.

Legolas evaded the swipe and countered, grazing the monster’s left side. He was much faster and lighter on his feet than the Witch-king, but he knew his opponent doubtlessly had a poisoned blade, and just one break of his skin could mean his death.

The pale lips of the twisted Man before him curled in a snarl.

“First blood,” Legolas mocked, goading the Witch-king into a reckless thrust.

Spotting an opening, Legolas left a deep wound in his opponent’s right inner thigh, dangerously close to the shaft that would have violated his love against his will.

“Aiming at my vulnerabilities?” the Nazgul jeered.

“Why ever not? You would aim at mine,” the Prince of Mirkwood replied, mind firmly on the battle.

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Glorfindel subdue the last of the three Nazgul.

But where was the lieutenant?

Another drive from the Witch-king brought his mind back to the battle before him, as the sound of clashing metal filled the clearing. He would have to trust his fellow Elves to take care of the remaining enemies.

“Your orcs and wargs are dead, and your Nazguls are on their knees before my fellow Elves,” Legolas derided. “Will you not concede? Even if you should defeat me, you would have to deal with fifty more elf-warriors.”

“I am in a better position than you realize,” the Witch-king sneered.

Legolas caught his weak left side again, leaving a deeper wound. His enemy was slowing.

“I am glad,” the prince replied. “It will be greater vengeance if you are fighting back when I kill you.”

The Witch-king grimaced in pain as another blow caught his right leg. His knees buckled, and he fell at Legolas’s feet.

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Harry winced as he was roughly removed from his chains. His arms fell limply to his sides, shooting pain as the blood rushed back into the sore limbs. He was pulled against a hard, cold body, and he felt sharp metal press painfully against the soft skin of his throat.

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The Witch-king of Angmar knelt defeated, and the clearing fell silent as the Prince of Mirkwood leant forward to deal the killing blow.

A loud cry broke through the red haze filling Legolas’s mind, and he pulled his thrust at the smirk on the Ringwraith’s face. His sword rested on the cruel monster’s pale neck as he turned his head to spot Harry in the arms of the Nazgul lieutenant, a wicked looking knife touching the delicate skin of his throat.

“I think I have what you want,” Khamul taunted. “But the question is: do you value his life over your revenge?”

To punctuate his question he pressed the knife more firmly into Harry’s neck, making the Elf cry out in pain and blood spill down the front of his tunic.

Legolas glanced down into the cruel eyes of his smirking enemy.

The Witch-king was not as defeated as he thought.

“Release Harry, and I pledge my honor that I will let you go free,” Legolas offered.

Khamul glanced around the clearing, taking stock of the battle. Every single orc and warg lay dead, their bodies scattered at the Elves’ feet. The Witch-king knelt defeated at the point of the elf-prince’s sword, while the tall elf-lord Glorfindel had subdued the remaining three Nazgul. Only Khamul was in any position of power.

“Can I trust your honor, Elf?” Khamul sneered. “After all, we all know why this pretty little thing left your castle to begin with.”

Legolas refused to let himself be goaded by the Nazgul’s words.

“Deliver him into the hands of one of my fellow Elves, and you shall go from here unharmed,” Legolas stated.

Khamul stared him straight in the eye, and dug the knife in deeper. Legolas fought to keep his face blank as more red blood was spilled.

“I think I am going to take him with me,” the Nazgul stated. “And you will let me pass, or he will die.”

Legolas shook his head.

“He will die anyway if I leave him with you,” the prince stated.

The garnered a cruel smirk, and Khamul removed the knife from Harry’s neck to press the broad side to one pale cheek. He stroked the knife down in a cold imitation of a caress, making Harry stay perfectly still lest the sharp point remove his eye.

The Nazgul pulled the Elf in closer to his body, dipping his head to suck harshly at the pale skin, staring Legolas in the eye all the while.

“I will make sure he enjoys it,” Khamul smirked. “But he is just too sweet to let go.”

Every Elf in the clearing got noticeably stiffer at the comment, but they kept their notched bows aimed at the floor, not wanting to provoke him further. But the moment he made a mistake and left himself vulnerable…

Harry whimpered, pale skin dulling even further, and Legolas sought to meet those beautiful green eyes.

He just wanted to take the Elf into his arms and soothe the pain and desperation away. He needed that skin to glow like it was supposed to, and those gorgeous eyes to spit fire at him like they should.

“You will not get out of here alive if you do not give him to me now,” Glorfindel interrupted. “The Witch-king will die; these Nazguls at my feet will die; you will die. And it will not be a pleasant end; I can assure you of that. You are completely surrounded, and you will not pass unless we allow you to do so.”

Khamul smiled at the elf-lord, and he trailed the cold knife down Harry’s cheek to the top of his tunic. He slid the knife under and began to cut the fabric down the middle.

“Stop!” Legolas shouted, composure shattering at the deathly pallor Harry’s skin was taking. “You are killing him!”

Khamul laughed evilly.

“I would not mind fucking a corpse,” he said cruelly, knife cutting more of the shirt and blood welling where it cut lightly into the Elf’s skin. “Would you mind loving one? If you let me go now, I will be on the run, and most likely not touch him for a while. If I kill him now…he is dead.”

“I…I w-would rather die,” Harry whispered past his parched throat.

Then the Elf suddenly went limp, and Khamul struggled under the dead weight, knife piercing Harry’s stomach in his effort. Harry bit the Nazgul’s arm, and Khamul recoiled. An arrow came from behind Legolas, hitting Khamul in the shoulder and making him stumble backwards.

The Elves went to shoot him, but the Witch-king managed to get free of Legolas’s blade at the prince’s distraction, and smoke filled the clearing.

“Sorcery!” Glorfindel shouted, warning the Elves. Most backed away from the smoke, but Legolas rushed to the ground where Harry had crumpled.

The Witch-king and his Nazguls disappeared.

And the big, broad form of the Man who had shot the arrow that saved Harry’s life stumbled over to Legolas’s side.

“Estel!” Glorfindel hissed. “You were not supposed to leave the healing chambers.”

“A-and if I h-had not, he would be d-dead,” Aragorn panted, falling to his knees at Harry’s side.

His love’s skin was pale and clammy, and his green eyes were glazed. The Man reached out a shaky hand to touch his forehead.

It was burning.

“He is feverish,” Aragorn murmured to Legolas.

“As are you,” the prince replied, sweeping Harry gently into his arms. “We must return to the castle immediately. He is Fading.”

“And what will the castle do to help him?” Aragorn muttered. “Give him to me. He is not physically injured.”

“But you are,” Legolas argued. “And you cannot carry him in your condition.”

“Legolas…” Aragorn growled, but he was cut off by a weary moan.

“T-Thorongil?” Harry whispered, eyes wide and disbelieving as they locked onto his supposedly dead friend’s face. “Am I d-dead?”

“Shh, love,” Aragorn soothed, eyes only for the beautiful Elf. “You will be fine.”

“N-no. You…dead. My fault,” Harry murmured feverishly. “Witch-king…”

“He lied to you. I was poisoned, but the Elves healed me. I will live,” Aragorn comforted, pushing his own pain and exhaustion back.

He lifted one large, tan hand to smooth the dark hair out of his love’s eyes, the other going to softly caress a pale cheek.

“So…so scared,” Harry sobbed, tears falling from his eyes. “He…”

“He will never touch you again,” Aragorn promised, dark grey eyes meeting the Elf’s seriously. “Never.”

“T-trust you,” his love smiled weakly. “S-stay?”

“Of course,” Aragorn stated. “But you have to stay with me, all right. Think of the long life you have ahead of you. Do not Fade and let him win. I know you are stronger than that.”
Harry nodded softly, going limp in Legolas’s arms.

“Harry?” Aragorn questioned, panicked. “Harry?”

“He is just sleeping,” Glorfindel reassured. “We must return to the castle.”
Legolas nodded, delicately handing Harry to Glorfindel before mounting his horse. Then he held his arms out to the elf-lord.

“Legolas…” Glorfindel hesitated.

“Estel is too weak; you should help him. I can carry Harry,” he stated firmly.

Glorfindel nodded and complied, not wanting to waste any more time.

He mounted his own horse, pulling Aragorn onto the back before the Man could even attempt to stumble over to ride alone. Another Elf could grab that horse.

“Patrol the area,” Glorfindel told the elf-warriors. “Kill any orcs or wargs on sight, and look for the Witch-king and his Nazgul. Travel in groups of at least ten. I do not want you to be separated and picked off one by one.”

The Elves nodded, not questioning his command, and took off to fulfill it.

Legolas raced back to the castle, Harry pale and breathing weakly in his arms. As long as that chest continued to rise and fall, Legolas knew he could continue.

He did not want to think of the alternative.

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Author’s Note: Well, this chapter was really hard to write for me. Let me know what you think about the battle scenes, please.