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Aragorn, off to the left, saw what Legolas did, how the troll fell. He
gave a whoop of elation and shouted to Elrohir. “Did you see that? Aim
for its mouth!”
Elrohir nodded tensely. He could do it, but it would be
dangerous. To get the right trajectory, he would have to stand
very close to the troll - and to its fists and club. He
positioned himself, and waited until the troll towering over him roared
again, then swiftly shot his arrow at it. It worked. The troll tried to swallow,
gave a hoarse, harsh bellow, and collapsed. The cheers of the elves at
his success seemed to enrage the remaining troll. It shot out its hand
and grabbed at Elrohir, seizing his arm in a crushing grip, but then
seemed to be moving more slowly. The hillside was becoming brighter
now, and in the steadily growing light, Elrohir could see the troll’s
alarmed expression. Elladan, with a glance at the sky, yelled:
“Elrohir, get away from it! Now!”
Elrohir, suddenly understanding, gave a desperate twist and broke free,
leaving half his sleeve in the troll’s grasp. The first rays of the
rising sun filtered across the hillside. The troll gave a bellow of
rage and fury that abruptly broke off.
In the growing light the elves could see it, one arm reaching out for
Elrohir, a shred of his sleeve forever locked in its grip. “That was
close,” Elrohir gasped to his brother, who had gone rather white.
“Thank you for the warning, El.” He looked around the hillside,
at the three trolls they had fought, all dead. “Is that it? Two dead,
one stone. I wonder where the other two are? But at least this
hunt was successful.”
“Not quite so successful,” said Elladan sombrely. “Linhir is dead.” He
was kneeling by the elf who had been hit by the troll’s club. He lay
where he had fallen. The club had hit the top of his head, shattering
the skull. In sorrow they gathered round as the sun rose on the scene.
The two dead trolls had turned to stone, either as they died or as the
sun reached them, and there were now three new rocks on the hillside.
Elladan got to his feet. “We have to go back. Let me take
Linhir.” He moved across to Mithrond.
“I think it would have been a lot worse if Legolas had not realised how
to kill them,” said Elrohir. “Nothing else we did seemed to work.
Well done.” He paused, looking around. “Where is he?” They looked
round sharply. There was no sign of Legolas, either among those
standing sadly by Linhir, or with the elves inspecting the fallen
trolls. “Where is he?” Elrohir
repeated, his voice sharpened by anxiety.
Aragorn pointed. “He was standing by the first troll we killed. I
saw him jump out of the way! It couldn’t have fallen on him, could it?”
Unable to believe the sudden turn of events, the three looked at each
other, baffled.
“Spread out. Search,” ordered Elladan tersely.
“Over here!” called Raffael. He was looking at the bushes just behind
them. Turning, they saw Legolas lying motionless where the blow from
the club had knocked him, crumpled limply beneath the tree. Elladan and
Elrohir moved him carefully onto the grass as Aragorn bent over them.
“What happened?”
“I cannot tell,” said Elrohir. “It looks like the other troll got him,
but I do not know if it was a fist or its club.”
Aragorn, remembering Linhir, whispered, “Is he alive?”
Just then there was a commotion behind them. A group of elves from
Imladris, lead by Elrond, had come to check on their progress. “Thank
the Valar. Father! Over here!” called Elrohir. As Elrond approached,
Aragorn moved aside to give him room.
Elladan had gently felt for a pulse, dreading what he might find. He
gave a sigh of relief, coupled with surprise. “Yes, he is.”
Elrond knelt beside his sons. Legolas had a long cut running vertically
from his hairline to the corner of his eye, an area of crushed and
bloodied flesh on his forehead, and a darkening bruise covering half
his face. There was no flicker of consciousness, and his face, always
pale, was ashen. Elrond looked down at him. “Oh, elfling, what have you
done this time?” he murmured softly. He ran deft, probing fingers over
Legolas’ head, feeling carefully for any damage to the skull. Then he
gently lifted each eyelid, looking at the pupils.
“Father?”
Elrond looked up at his sons, not sure which of the three had
spoken. “What happened?” he asked simply, his face strained.
Elladan and Elrohir explained what they knew, with Aragorn adding what
he had seen. “Father? Will he be all right?” Elrond stood up wearily
and sighed.
“I cannot tell yet. Come, we should go back to Imladris.”
Slowly, sadly, the hunting party rode back to Imladris. The euphoria
they had felt at the defeat of the trolls had completely disappeared,
and the mood was subdued. Three of the trolls were dead, but two of
their own had fallen. One was dead, and the other – no one knew
yet. Aragorn rode beside Elrond, questioning him about Legolas’s
injury. Behind them were Elladan and Elrohir, their normal high spirits
quenched. Elladan held Linhir in his arms, his expression
blank. This could so easily have been any of them.
As they rode through the archway into the courtyard at Imladris, Arwen
was waiting to greet them. She looked pale and strained. Her eyes
flicked over the group, some of the tension visibly leaving her as she
saw Aragorn, her father, her brothers. She came down the steps and
stopped by Elrond. “Father, the messengers said someone had been
killed! What happened?” She raised one hand, and twitched
aside a fold of the cloak that wrapped Legolas. Her hands flew to
her mouth in horror as she stifled a cry of anguish. “Legolas,” she breathed.
“No. Oh, no!”
She turned to Aragorn, and buried her face in his shoulder. “It’s
all right,” he told her, reflecting that that was not quite the right
thing to say. “Legolas is alive. He’s hurt, but he’s alive.”
Then, behind him, she saw her brothers more clearly. Arwen’s eyes
widened in dismay. “Linhir too? Oh no - Elladan, what
happened?” she whispered.
Aragorn moved from her side, reaching up to help Elladan move Linhir.
“I’m sorry, Linhir’s dead. One of the trolls got him. But Legolas is
going to be all right, I’m sure your father can do something.” He
sounded optimistic, wanting to reassure Arwen, but in truth was
desperately worried. He had seen the concern on Elrond’s face. And if
the elf Lord was so uncertain, what were Legolas’ chances?
Aragorn trailed behind Elrond as they made their way to Legolas’s room.
Arwen and Elladan remained to deal with Linhir.
In Legolas’ chamber, Elrohir carefully placed him on the bed. Then he
and Aragorn stood back to give their father room. Elrond again ran his
long, sensitive fingers over Legolas’ head, probing gently, and feeling
for any swelling or depression, any ridge which could indicate a
fracture. At last he straightened, and gave a sigh of relief. “Well,
there seems to be no damage that I can feel. But this,” – he indicated
the long, jagged gash – “will need to be stitched.”
Aragorn watched, fascinated, as Elrond carefully stitched along the
wound, drawing the skin on either side of the gaping cut
together. He never tired of watching his father work. When
he had finished, a line of fine stitches ran vertically down Legolas’
forehead, so that the wide gash was now only a long, narrow cut. Elrond
stood back. “That should heal now, without a scar. It could have been a
lot worse. He must have a very thick skull.”
“I said that years ago,” muttered Elrohir, not quite under his breath.
Aragorn, despite his concern, gave a short laugh, which he changed into
a cough when Elrond glared at them both.
“I want one of you to stay here. I think he will not wake up yet, but
if he does, call me.”
“Yes, father,” murmured Aragorn. When Elrond had gone, he gazed down at
Legolas. It seemed strange to see him so pale and still, the spark of
life and joy missing. The day dragged. Elrohir disappeared after a
while, leaving Aragorn alone. He read, paced, and sat by the bed
telling Legolas how the other two trolls had been killed.
At one stage it looked like Legolas was rousing. He stirred slightly,
eyes flickering, and murmured something which Aragorn did not catch.
But after a while he subsided, and silence fell again. Aragorn, sitting
by the window, looked up in relief as, towards evening, Elrond returned
with Elrohir.
“Is there no change?” Aragorn shook his head.
“Nothing. I thought he was going to wake up, but ...” he trailed off.
“Father, is he going to be all right?”
Elrond gave them both a reassuring smile. “There is no need to worry,
just give it time. I think he will be fine.” The three sat, talking
softly, as outside darkness fell.
~~**~~
For Legolas, return to consciousness was a slow, painful business.
Stray thoughts and sensory impressions flickered like fireflies, but
when he tried to hold on to them, they slipped from his grasp like a
handful of sand. The more he tried, the harder it was, and everything
seemed to become more and more elusive. Legolas struggled to make some
sense of his confused thoughts, but the effort was too great. It hurt
even to think. Eventually the thoughts faded away completely, and he
sank into oblivion again.
Some indeterminable time later he drifted toward the light again. The
fleeting thoughts and feelings returned, as ephemeral as a
will-o-the-wisp. With an immense effort he was able to hold on to some
of the impressions, and gradually made some order out of the chaos.
He was indoors, lying on a soft bed. A breath of cool air carried
scents of trees, water and damp earth to him. Imladris. There were
others in the room, one very close to him. There was sharp, stabbing
pain across his head, and a duller ache throughout his body. There was
a quiet voice calling him.
“Come, elfling. I know you are awake.”
Elfling? Only three people ever called him that. He considered the
possibilities. His father, Glorfindel, or: “Elrond?” He realised
he had made no sound. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Cool
water trickled into his mouth, and he licked it gratefully. He tried
again. “Elrond?” His voice was a faint, breathy whisper.
Legolas struggled to open his eyes, but the lids felt leaden. Finally
he succeeded, but his vision was blurred, and he could only see out of
one eye. The other was glued shut. He felt a momentary panic, but the
figure next to him – Elrond? – wiped away the encrusted blood until he
could open both eyes, although his right eye would still not open
fully. It felt swollen, ached incessantly, and the vision
remained blurred. Slowly he blinked the room into partial focus. It was
dark outside, and he could see two figures by the windows. Elrond was
standing over the bed, looking down in concern.
“Can you tell me what happened?” It was his standard question when
assessing any head injury.
Legolas frowned, and closed his eyes again, trying to remember. The
slight movement sent a sharp pain across his forehead. He raised his
hand to it, and felt a raw tender area, and a long gash that ran to his
eye, criss-crossed by a line of stitches. He was unaware that as his
silence lengthened Elrond’s look of concern deepened, and across the
room, Elrohir and Aragorn exchanged worried glances.
“The trolls,” he said at last, a little uncertainly. “We fought them. I
killed one, I think. After that…” he stopped, unable to recall anything
else. He shook his head, grimacing as the movement sent a blinding pain
shooting through his head. “I am not sure.” Suddenly he looked up at
Elrond. “Linhir. I saw him go down. Is he all right?”
Elrond sighed. He had hoped Legolas would not remember that particular
detail. “No. He was killed. I think you were very lucky. How do you
feel?”
Legolas considered the question. “As if Durin himself had used my
head for his anvil.”
Across the room he could hear a smothered laugh from Aragorn, who
crossed to the bed. He sat down; causing a slight jolt that sent
another wave of pain and nausea through Legolas, who gave a slight gasp.
Elrond smiled. “Drink this. It should help the headache.” He slipped an
arm around Legolas and helped him to sit. Taking a cup, Elrond held it
to his mouth. Legolas was not about to be helped to drink like a child,
so he took the cup for himself. He was appalled to see his hand
shaking. He steadied the cup with his other hand and managed to drink.
The sweet taste of the liquid could not disguise the bitter aftertaste
of the herbs. He drained it, then said: “Did you say lucky? What
happened to Linhir?”
Elrond had not wanted to go into details, but could no longer avoid it.
Legolas was every bit as stubborn as his father was. “The troll hit him
with its club. He was killed instantly. His – his skull was crushed.”
Aragorn, from the end of the bed, said, “You killed one of the trolls.
Elrohir followed your example and got another one. The last one was
petrified when the sun came up. We got them, Legolas, all three.”
Legolas leaned his head back against the pillows and swallowed against
a sudden vertigo. The room was spinning. Whatever was in the draught
Elrond had given him, it was more than just a remedy for his headache.
Grey eyes looked accusingly at Elrond as darkness splintered the edges
of his vision. “What...” he began, as unconsciousness claimed him again.
“”Just something to help you sleep, elfling. Just something to help you
sleep.”
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