Child of Rohan

Thick grey thunderclouds, heavy with rain, stormed across the sky banishing the warmth and light of the sun and casting an ominous gloom over the keep at Helm's Deep. It occurred to Legolas, who stood on the wall peering into the ever-increasing darkness, that this was possibly the handiwork of Saruman. The storm in the sky was sent to herald the storming of the keep by the Army of the White Hand, the immense horde that the Elf's keen eyes could just make out on the horizon.

The stone walls were all that lay before the people of Rohan and defeat, for Theoden's army was vastly outnumbered and severely outmatched. They were also terrified, but for love of their King, they would fight with every ounce of courage they possessed. Many of the men of Rohan would die this night, and while Legolas knew that even an Elf could be slain, he found the concept of death difficult to fathom. He also knew that he would willingly travel to Mandos' Hall to save the life of his dearest friends, Aragorn and Gimli, just as they would die for him. Nevertheless, he sincerely hoped that such a sacrifice would not be necessary this night.

As the thin black line of the ever-advancing army grew steadily larger, the irony of the situation did not escape Legolas. The battle he was about to face was not unlike the one that claimed the life of his grandsire during the Last Alliance. Like Theoden, Oropher, too, lead an army of rustics, with no real military skills and inferior weaponry. Their greatest asset was their utter devotion to their King, and they willingly followed him into battle against overwhelming odds, just as Theoden's people were about to do. It was a feeling he could well understand, for he would do no less for Thranduil and Mirkwood. That the outcome at Helm's Deep would be very different was not likely he knew, but he believed as Aragorn did that there was always hope and he prayed silently that the light of stars might shine kindly on these folk.

His rather morbid thoughts were interrupted by a slight tug on the hem of his tunic.

"What is it, Gimli?" he asked looking down expecting to find his friend's smiling face. "Ai, you are not my Dwarf friend," he said gently, kneeling down so that he could look directly at his 'assailant', a young boy of possibly six or seven summers.

"Are you really an Elf?" the child asked fearlessly, instinctively unafraid of one whom he knew would do him no harm. "My big brother says there are no Elves anymore, and that you are not a real one." Legolas smiled, amazed at the innocence and wonder in the child's large brown eyes. He reached out to gently squeeze the small hand,

"Does that feel real to you?" he asked. The boy nodded, but was apparently not entirely convinced.

"Yes, but even if you are real, how do I know you are an Elf?" he asked. "I do not see any pointy ears?"

"Then you are not looking hard enough," he suggested, his eyes sparkling with merriment as he turned his head slightly to allow closer inspection of the tip of his ear. The boy's eyes widened even further and he tentatively reached out to almost touch the strange ear.

"You may touch me, if you wish," Legolas said in answer to the unspoken question in the child's eyes.

"It looks pointy, but it is not sharp," said the boy, giggling. "I guess you are a real Elf. My brother says that Elves steal children who are naughty. You don't do you?" He asked a little uncertainly.

"Certainly not! That is total nonsense," said Legolas a little sharply, annoyed at such ignorance. Apparently the boy's older brother had filled his head with some very strange notions.

"Good," he said, a brilliant smile lighting his face, "I did not really believe him. I think you are very nice. Will you be my friend? My name is Dareth, what's yours?"

"Yes, it would please me to be your friend, Dareth. My name is Legolas. Now, where is your elder brother?" Legolas asked, "I will escort you back to his care, it is far too dangerous for you to be up here." He did not mention that he thought a few quiet words in the elder boy's ear were also in order.

"Down in the room where the swords are, he is going to be a great warrior and fight in the battle," the child said proudly. Legolas heart skipped a beat.

"Just how old is he?" he asked, already knowing that the answer would be painful to hear.

"He has seen ten winters," came the proud answer. Legolas closed his eyes for a moment in silent agony at the thought of the many innocents who were going to be lost this night. "He is very brave, you know."

"Yes, I am sure he is," agreed the Elf. "Who is taking care of you, if not your brother?" he asked, mindful that perhaps the boy's parents were both no longer alive.

"Mama, of course, she is in the great hall with the others from our village. Come on, you have to meet her." He said enthusiastically taking Legolas' hand and pulling him towards the stairs. Legolas allowed himself to be lead, ignoring the bewildered stares from the soldiers he passed. He stopped when they reached the entrance, and looked with amazement at the scenes before him; this was a side of war he had never encountered before. The room was filled with women and children, all looking well travelled, their clothes grimy and their hair dishevelled. Legolas sensed much sadness, and fear in their hearts, but his elvish sight allowed him to see the courage, love and pride they held within both for those they had sent to war, and those they were bound to protect. The inner strength of the womenfolk of Rohan was the weapon they wielded like a sword against the enemy, and it gave them a beauty beyond measure in his eyes. His new friend released his hand and ran over to throw his arms around the neck of one of the women, who was seated on the floor, reading a story to the youngsters gathered around her.

"Mama, look, I have found an Elf!" he exclaimed, to the merriment of everyone in the room, including Legolas.

"Please forgive my son's manners, my lord," Dareth's mother said, smoothing her skirts as she arose and unconsciously attempted to push the loose strands of hair from her face. She walked over to curtsy to her son's new friend, obviously one of high station.

"There is nothing to forgive, he is but a child, and a charming one at that, my lady," Legolas said easing her discomfort in her appearance with a radiant smile. He gallantly took her hand and brushed it lightly with his lips, "I am not your lord. I am an Elf from the realm of Mirkwood. My name is Legolas."

"There you are!" exclaimed a slightly older boy who had just entered the hall. He was attired in a mail tunic that was obviously meant for one of many more years, and carried a sword not much shorter than him. "I have been looking for you everywhere, Dareth. Mother has been so worried." He looked slightly taken aback when he saw who had accompanied his younger brother back to the hall.

"I just wanted to see if Legolas was a real Elf," Dareth explained, "You were wrong! He is real." He said, poking his tongue out at his older adversary. Legolas smiled inwardly when saw the gesture but said nothing; He had often done the same when he was but an elfling who had won an argument with his friends.

"So I see," the elder boy grudgingly admitted, unable to prevent himself from staring at the Elf, who was most definitely not a figment of his imagination.

It broke Legolas' heart to suddenly realise that aside from being the brother of his newly found friend; he was also obviously the head of the family. For an instant he tried to imagine what it would be like to lose his own father, and the intensity of the pain in his soul almost caused him to lose his balance. No one seemed to notice his momentary lapse, but he wanted nothing more at this moment than to remove himself from this hall that was filled with the sadness and loss of war.

"Now that you are safely in your mother's care, I will take my leave," said Legolas with a polite bow. Even though the sun was well hidden, he could tell that night was only a couple of hours away and he wanted to spend the remaining time before the battle with Aragorn and Gimli. "Look for me when the battle is done," he said as he bent down to bless his friend with a fatherly kiss on the forehead. "I know many true stories about Elves you may wish to hear."

Part Two. The Aftermath

As the men and boys of Rohan fought the soldiers of the Dark Lord with fierce determination and courage, those they were seeking to protect were not idle. Despite their fear and concern for their menfolk, the women of Rohan were busy preparing for the aftermath of the battle they were all certain that King Théoden and his army would win. The elderly and some of the younger women had taken on the task of caring for the children as well as preparing many pots of broth with which to feed the refugees. The other women, many well used to dealing with battle injuries, and death were either busily tearing any suitable cloth on hand into bandages or grinding medicinal herbs into salves with which to treat the many wounded men and boys. The makeshift healing hall was already crowded with a large number of wounded and dying, but many more were expected before the day was done.

Each time an injured man was brought in and identified, one of the women would breathe a sigh of relief with the knowledge that her husband, father brother or son was still alive. The others would briefly share in the joy of the reunion although waiting to learn of the fate of their own loved ones was agony. In a display of inner strength, all knew that sadness and despair would have to wait until the battle was over. The injured and the living needed their full attention.

“Mama, is that Dwarf not the friend of Legolas?” whispered Dareth softly. Both he and his mother were at the bedside of his older brother, one of the first wounded to be brought from the Deep. He had been badly injured by a single arrow that had pierced his ill-fitting armour, barely missing his heart. Although he remained unconscious, they were both thankful that he was at least still alive.

“I believe that is he,” she replied, sparing Gimli a brief glance before turning her attention back to her wounded son.

“May I go and speak with him, perhaps he knows something about Legolas?” asked the boy, his concern for the Elf he had recently befriended very apparent to his mother.

“Yes, you may, but before you ask after Legolas, I think you should help Gimli, as he is called, to treat his wound. Take him this bandage, a cloth and a dish of water,” she instructed, handing the boy a roll of white cloth and a wooden dish that Dareth filled from a water pitcher. He walked slowly, so as not to spill any, over to where Gimli was sitting,

In the heat of the battle, Gimli, Éomer, Gamling the Old, and many others had been separated from the main battle but had managed to fight their way to the relative safety of the caves. Once he had made certain that the entrance was secure as possible, Gimli had allowed himself a few moments to rest. His head ached from where he had been hit by some flying debris when the last explosion occurred, and not that he would ever admit it to anyone, he was far too weary to even raise his hand to stem the small but constant trickle of blood running down the side of his face. He watched with some curiosity as the boy approached.  He could not recall where he had seen him before, but he was certain he knew the child.

“Greetings Master Dwarf.  I have come to help you tend your wound, if you will allow me?” Dareth asked respectfully.

“It is naught but a scratch, but I thank you for your concern,” replied Gimli as he allowed the boy to quickly wash the blood from his face and then bind the wound. It was a job surprisingly well done for one so young and Gimli wondered how many times the boy had been called upon to bandage other’s wounds. ‘Too many,’ he answered himself.

 “Ah, that feels much better,” he said when the task was complete. “Tell me lad, do I know you?”

“My name is Dareth. I am a friend of the Elf, Legolas,” declared the boy grandly.

“As am I, I am proud to say,” said Gimli, drawing a smile from the child.

“Do you know if he is well?” asked Dareth, his smile quickly replaced by tears welling in his eyes, as he feared the answer he might be given.

“The last time I saw him, he was fighting with the fierce skill of the warrior he is, with nary a scratch marring his fair features,” added Gimli reassuringly, and taking no little comfort from his own words. ‘The Elf would survive if only to gloat should his tally of orc heads be greater than mine,’ he thought with some amusement.

Dareth looked relieved and continued his questioning.

“He promised to tell me more about the Elves after the battle. I do not think an Elf would break his promise, would he?” Gimli could not help but smile. The boy was certainly as filled with curiosity as Legolas had said he was when he had told Gimli of his new friend.

 “Have no fear, child, Legolas will not break his promise!” declared the dwarf confidently.

“Do you know much about Elves?” asked Dareth, in his innocence of the past history of the two races.

“More than many people, but not near enough to satisfy your inquisitive mind,” answered Gimli, looking around as his nostrils detected the aroma of warm food from the cooking area. He was suddenly very hungry. “However, if you would bring me a bowl of that broth that smells so delicious, I will tell you something that you may use to surprise the Elf when next you speak.”

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Legolas stood alone staring with delight at the almost magical forest that now bordered the battlefield, and lamented the fact that soon he would be leaving with the others bound for Isengard. Greatly did he desire to walk amongst the trees that had come to the aid of the Rohirrim, to know more about them, to learn their language. He breathed a sigh of regret, knowing that such a delightful pursuit would have to wait until the war was over. He silently thanked the Valar that Aragorn, and especially Gimli, had survived the battle, and he hoped the same was true of those he loved in Mirkwood.

“Legolas!” he heard a small voice calling to him, and turned around in time to easily catch the young child who threw himself into his arms.

“Dareth!” The feeling of happiness emanating from the boy as he found his friend alive and well warmed the Elf’s heart and his eyes brightened with pleasure. Legolas hugged the child briefly before releasing him. “I see that you are well, but Gimli told me of your brother’s injury. How does he fare?”

“He is awake now, and Mama says in time he will recover his full strength,” Dareth answered happily.

“That is very good news, but I trust you sought her permission to seek me out this time?” asked Legolas, remembering that the child had not previously informed his mother of his whereabouts, causing her some distress as she searched for him.

“Aye, I told Mama where I was going, and that I would not be long,” he responded, sounding slightly affronted that such a question need be raised. “She sends you greeting, by the way,” he added remembering his manners.

“And I offer mine in return, and my thanks to you both for seeing to Gimli’s wound,” replied Legolas as he placed his hand on his heart as was the way of his people.

“I like Gimli very much,” commented Dareth sincerely.

“As do I,” agreed Legolas in a voice softened by affection for the Dwarf.

“He was right about you too. You do not have even a scratch from the fighting,” said Dareth as he candidly studied the Elf’s face.

“I did have one or two scratches, but elves heal very quickly and the marks have already vanished,” explained Legolas. The child’s eyes widened with astonishment at that statement, but then darkened with sorrow.

“I wish my brother could heal that quickly,” he said morosely.

“But he is a Man, and a very brave man at that, not an Elf,” said Legolas gently.

“Yes, he is!” declared Dareth proudly, with a mercurial change of mood that was very elf like. “Will you tell me more about Elves?”

“Ah, young master Dareth, I am afraid such tales will have to wait.  Aragorn has sent me to inform Legolas that we leave for Isengard shortly,” Gimli explained as he joined his friends.

“I will hold to my promise when I return from whatever lies ahead. For now I bid you farewell, my young friend,” said Legolas as he knelt down and held his arms out to embrace the child. Dareth could not hide his disappointment, but managed to smile bravely. He looked over Legolas’s shoulder and winked conspiratorially to Gimli before returning the hug.

It was Legolas’s turn to look astonished when the childish voice whispered in his ear,

“Namarie, mellon nin.”