Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

This follows movie verse insofar that the people from Edoras sought refuge at Helm's Deep before the battle of the Hornburg.

It contains references to a longer story I'm posting on ffnet and AO3, since it includes a scene with an OC, here explored through the eyes of a child. But it can be read as well as a stand-alone.

They have set fire to it all. It was night when they came. We have not seen much of them. Vile men with flaring torches.

The village burst aflame. People screamed and the fires blazed. People fled in all directions.

The air was searing hot, and the smoke stung in my eyes and in my throat. Mother was carrying my little sister as she ran. And I stumbled behind her.

Everything was so wrong and terrible. We fled and did not look back. My baby sister never ceased crying. We walked all night without rest.

There were others with us; neighbours and friends, but still so many were not there. And we did not know where they were. Perhaps they had fled as well, or they burned in the flames or were slain by the vile men. I do not know and neither does my mother nor anybody I asked who was with us.

My sister still cried, but after so long a time, her voice dimmed to a pained, weary whimpering. And as the black darkness of the night faded into the misty grey of early dawn, she had fallen asleep in my mother's arms.

We walked to the point of exhaustion. Fréa, a young man from our community took my sister from my mother's arms as she was sleeping. But when she woke she would seek for mother, scream for her, and her tiny voice would get louder, until mother cradled her in her arms hushing her screams into weary crying.

The fire had touched her left arm and side, had turned her skin red and burning. Some of the others who were with us bore wounds from the fire as well. But I did not want to look and I did not want to think about it.

We found a stream sometime in the morning where they could cool the burned flesh. And I thought of my baby goat in the stable. I hope somehow it could flee together with the other goats, and the chickens, my favourite hen, and – … and I think of my friends and my cousins, my aunt and all of them who are not here with us; if they made it out of the village and where they are.

My tears stung my eyes, running down my cheeks. Mother squeezed me in a frantic hug. She looked drained. But she still carried my sister anytime she woke. She is strong.

I do not know how long we walked. The sun rose, but I did not want to look at the people who were with us. Did not want to see how broken they are, and even more, I avoided looking at those who were burnt. Only my mother and my sister did I want to see. Because mother is strong and I love her and I trust her to save us.

Some of them wept with relief. And I longed so badly to reach the gate, enter, lie down, and sleep in safety. Erase it all; the vile men, the fire, the torches, and most of all; the screams. Close my ears and hear nothing again.

More people had already sought shelter. It seems that our village had not been the only one raided.

Finally, I would be allowed to sleep. And I was so glad for my mother; that she did not have to carry my sister any longer. Aye, she is strong! – But how do I know how long she could have carried on?

I think I slept long because as I wake the place all around us is crowded. My mother says that the people of Edoras have all fled to this burg. They are many. There are bleeding men among them. Mother says they have fought in a battle, allowing their people's retreat to safety.

My sister whimpers miserably beside me, and then, fortunately, once more she falls asleep.

There is so much happening around me and I watch it all. It helps to keep me distracted from the thought of my village, from the people I know and perhaps I will not see anymore. It helps me to not think of my baby goat. Though what I see is most dire, it is the only distraction available.

My eyes wander over children huddled against their mothers, to exhausted people sleeping or lying on the stony ground, to the bleeding men. And I watch the healers, moving between them.

One young woman captures my attention as soon as I see her. Her fair hair flows over her slender shoulders in smooth waves and it glows a pale gold in the light of day. Her grey eyes are large, gleaming, and warmly concerned. Mother said that she is the young Lady of Rohan, the niece of the King, the princess. I watch her constantly as she cares for the people around us. I do admire her. In this dark day, she emanates such beauty and light. When I'm grown I would like to be like her.

The people around us talk about what happened to them, about what happened to others. They talk about the things going on in the last days and weeks, months, and years. They mourn and hope and talk about it all.

There is this woman with the pointed ears. I notice that the healers often call her from one wounded man to another when they seem desperate. The princess and the woman often reach one another and exchange important words, from what I can read in the expressions on their faces.

They say she comes from the South. I've heard as they talked, the people. She has this thick raven hair, and amber-toned skin, and a slightly haunted look in her dark eyes. I ask myself if they all look like this the Southrons, and if they have all pointed ears, like hobbits and elves or even those beasts – if they are of a different race…

I ask my mother. But mother says no, that they are humans like us. - But why then is this one so strange?

They thank her at times, and when they do so she smiles. She looks young then, almost as young as my friend's senior sister. Her skin is smooth and even. But within a breath, the shades around her eyes and under her high cheekbones deepen again, and her eyes turn haunted and dark. Suddenly she looks old, so immensely old for her flawless skin. Older than my grandmother who died last year. Older than anybody I have seen. And I shiver at the unsettling strangeness of it. She scares me.

There is another being with pointed ears on the burg. He is an elf. Mother confirmed.

I am excited. I have finally seen an elf! I had heard of them only in tales before. They say strange things about them; that they can do magic, and are immortal. They are dangerous too, I heard, and formidable warriors. Some of my friends were frightened, but I am intrigued. This one carries a bow, and two white, elegantly carved knives are sheathed at his back beside the quiver full of fletched arrows. He looks the way I have always imagined those beings. He is beautiful, hauntingly at that. His gaze wanders over the whole scene in front of him, over us… His expression is difficult to read. His eyes are grey – or blue… I cannot really discern. And although they look grave and deeply sad at what he sees, they glitter like the stars at night even now in plain daylight.

I would like to touch his pale hair. It looks like flowing silk spun of light gold. I wonder how it feels. He has braided it back behind his ears in elegant tresses.

The woman with the dark eyes and the pointed ears stops dead in her track as she notices him. Is she startled? They are close, and so I hear them exchange incomprehensible words in a strange tongue. His deep voice is smooth and pleasant; a soft play of words. It is the language of the elves, I guess. The Southron woman with the pointed ears must be knowing their speech because she answers him in what seems to be the same language or similar to it at least. Her voice is slightly raucous as if she hadn't spoken for long. And the words sound harder coming from her tongue.

The elf and the woman with the amber skin glance over to us, and already she is approaching. As she moves ever closer, I tense. I feel scared. But mother seems not to. She allows her to reach us and seems even glad for it. And so, hesitantly I relax as well. There seems to be no danger coming from her.

My sister stares at her wide-eyed and innocently, while she spreads a thick ointment on the burnt skin. It breaks my heart to think of the pain she is in. She is so small. But now she utters not a whisper. I wonder what spell this woman is using, or if this effect comes just natural with her soft touch.

The woman's eyes as she ruffles my sister's hair look different; they are no longer haunted, they no longer appear old at that moment. Her gaze is that of a mother. Tender and caring – and knowing. And as her gaze brushes me while getting on her feet, she smiles faintly. But this time she does not look young, and neither does she look old. I cannot give an age to that gaze. She looks sad and beyond weary.

I am curious about the elf, and so, as the strange woman is gone, I regard him intently. I study his movements, his posture, his features, his beauty. I drink in the sight, in hope that someday, if ever I should see them again, I may tell my friends that I have seen an elf, and get them intrigued at the image of him.

My sister has gone silent. She sleeps again. My eyelids grow heavy, beckoning me to do the same. Gladly I succumb once more to the much-needed rest. And I dream… – I dream of fire, and vile men. Yet this time they are far away. A battle rages near-by. I see the elf fight. He nocks and releases arrows with his great elegant bow. – He looks dangerous. And I feel safe.

1st place (shared with another story) at Teitho Contest nov/dec 20, challenge 'Gems and Jewels'. My thanks to all who voted for the story! And to my faithful beta Ruiniel; you're always great!

This version is slightly differing from the one I entered at Teitho, as in the ending I added some few lines alluding to my OC from a longer story I posted on ffnet and AO3.

This follows mainly movie verse where the people from Edoras sought refuge at Helm's Deep, but as in the book verse, there are no elven reinforcements at the Battle of the Hornburg.

The air in the caves felt damp and hollow, heavily reverberating with unnatural thunder. She had always been afraid of thunderstorms when the rain dashed upon their sturdy wooden house, and bolts of lightning struck the night-sky sending deep shudders through air and ground. Yet now she would have given anything to sit in her cosy little cottage, watching the storm raging outside, securely wrapped into a soft woollen cover, the fire crackling reassuringly in the small hearth…

But their house was no more. There would be no going back, no reassuring warmth from that little hearth, no evenings snuggled together under soft covers… never again.

Instead, she peered out from under her mother's arm, as she held her and her sister tight, covering their ears with the palms of her hands when the rumbling thunder would get threateningly loud. But it did not really help stifle the sound, because the whole mountain and the air within seemed to quaver. Her mother cried, and it frightened her. She was not used to seeing tears on those soft, familiar cheeks. Mother was strong. And this was not right. Mother did not fear thunders nor storms, this was something else completely. And she knew what it was. She was only a child, but she was old enough to understand, that this was way worse.

The women around them held their children, in the same way her mother held her and her sister. Fearful eyes, wide open – and with every shudder; the screams of the children, the broken voices of mothers wanting to soothe but failing while trying to hold their own tears at bay.

The burg had turned to near frenzied chaos. The men's faces were grim as they hurried around, gathering weapons and armour. But what frightened her most was the fear she saw in their serious eyes. - What was about to happen, she wondered, if even the men were terrified?

She watched the confusing images playing out while she clutched at her mother's skirt.

And then between all the disconcerting sounds of confusing voices and calls, rattling of carts, and clattering of metal, she heard a raised female voice. Immediately her attention was peaked, as she recognized that the voice belonged to the fair Lady of Rohan. The niece of the King, the princess.

"Let me fight!" She heard her say out loud and insistent. And between all the shapes moving about, she tried to get glimpses of the maid standing determined before the captain of the guard; her eyes flashed and the fine lines of her jaws were resolutely set as she pierced the man with a fiery glare.

Still clutching to her mother's gown the child stared at the woman with the flowing long hair in awe. So the princess knew how to fight, and it was obvious that she wished to go to battle, for them, for her people… The small girl set her mind, even within her next breath, that someday, when she was old enough, she would learn how to fight, and be fierce and valiant like her princess.

"My Lady! Please! Do not insist! This is an order from the King! You must stay with the women and lead them through the caves should need arise! There is no way to refuse this order." The captain said with finality, his voice strong and even. And then he turned his back on her and left to his business.

The young Lady said nothing. She did not hold him back, but her face was somber at first, and then revealed emotions she was probably forcefully restraining, as she stood there in the midst of people, watching the soldiers gathering all men and boys they saw fit to fight. She raised shaking hands, pressing them upon her brow and eyes, bending her head, only for a second. When she lifted her head again there was moisture pooling in her eyes, and she looked angered, desperate and sad altogether.

The writhing sobs of a woman next to them tore the girl's mind away from the Lady of Rohan.

"No," the woman begged, her voice torn with distress, "Please!... He is only twelve!" She reached out her hand for her boy as they took him with them.

He glanced back to his mother, confusion and fear on his young face when she let out a desperate wail.

"Mother!" he called, "Do not cry, I will return!" his clear, child's voice rang over to her as if wanting to soothe the frightening despair of his mother.

In the same moment, the girl felt a presence, and a soft light was cast on the stone. She lifted her gaze and not far from her she saw the elf. The being with hair of fine flowing silk, and stormy, clear, almost transparent eyes. The being she had admired earlier that day as if he were a figure out of a great tale.

And now, there he stood again, solid and real, tall and slender, his fluid motions brimming with strength. His pale hair and skin faintly glowed against the shades of dusk on the dark grey stone.

Her gaze lingered on him. He glanced their way, eyes filled with grief while taking in the image of the woman beside them, who then collapsed to a sobbing heap.

The elf pressed his eyes closed as if wanting to reject what he had just seen, and when he opened them again, the clearness was gone, their blue dark and blurred, and his nostrils flared. The straight, fine lines of his beautiful face now stood out hard as he shot an accusing look at his companion.

The man with the dark, unruly hair. He was a ranger, the people had said, but he had those strangely clear eyes of the elves, and he was meant to become a great King, she had heard from the talks of the people. His handsome face was stern before the events unfolding. But he did not look like a King – surely not yet – in his worn-out clothing and dirtied skin.

At the dark, piercing glare of the elf, the man closed his eyes as his chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. Then his features briefly softened, and he bit his bottom lip. Sadness flickered almost imperceptibly through the clear silver of his strange elven eyes. But then he turned away, reassuming his way across the place directing the work to prepare for the fight.

The man and the elf passed by the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, who still stood rooted to the spot, disbelief and defeat darkening the profile of her fair face.

The ranger nodded at her with respect. And the elf shortly paused in his tracks, standing before her, his gaze showing deep understanding. "This is beyond my comprehension, my Lady."

Actually, the girl was not close enough to hear what he spoke in a soft tone, but she was observing the elf so very intently, that on his lips she was sure she had read those words. He then brought his hand to his chest bending his head in an assenting gesture, before he moved away from the Lady, following the ranger. Only now she noticed the dwarf at the elf's side. The sturdy, short being patted his tall friend's arm comfortingly, and she thought she had heard how he had called him 'lad'. It was an affectionate, soothing gesture.

The Lady of Rohan looked silently resigned. But soon after, she stirred, determined in her new purpose. She gathered them, women and children, guiding them towards the safety of the caves.

Her mother had bent to the crying woman beside them, trying to calm her, trying to help her rise. Although carrying her sister, and having the girl clutched at her skirts, her mother sustained the despairing woman as they moved along.

The girl stared around, at the boys and men being supplied with weapons and armour; those were no soldiers! Their gazes were wavering, insecure, and so many afeared.

The stronghold that had appeared to her a saving haven when they arrived, now had turned hard and cold and set before looming doom. – What place was this, where children had to fight, wrenching bitter tears from strong mothers?

She managed to get a last glimpse of the elf in the crowd. Her heart eased only that small little bit, to find a tiny thread of hope in his unnaturally fair image. She thought of his eyes, how they had seemed unreadable when first she had seen him. But then tonight she had read in them grief and doubt, anger even – but never fear… she had seen no fear in the elf's eyes! And she clung to his formidable image.

The tension in the caves hung thick like a wet blanket, the lingering fear peaked to the point of choking them. Every scream, every sob tore the unbearable heaviness like lighting, as though cutting through flesh and bone, constantly accompanied by the terrible thundering from the battle outside getting ever closer.

She did not know where to look. She did not want to see the devastated faces of the people around them. She snuggled into the warm protection of her mother. But her strong mother trembled. Glancing upwards the girl tried to catch sight of her face, but when a tear fell onto her cheek from above she dropped her gaze; she did not want to see her mother weep.

In her mother's other arm lay her little sister. To her great relief, she was deeply asleep. She wondered how the cute little bundle could sleep so completely unaware and untouched by all the terrible noise around her; if the exhaustion from her injuries had brought her to that point, or if the healer's ministrations had worked wonders on her body and mind, that in all the tumult she was now the only one peacefully slumbering. She did not know what it was, but she knew that she was so very grateful, that at least her baby sister did not have to suffer this fear, and the girl wished that she too could just close her eyes and escape into a dream, anything, any place but this.

She tried to recall the image of the elf. She saw him standing on a wall nocking and releasing arrows with his great bow. His eyes gleaming, clear blue and lethal. And then the same eyes became clouded and grey like a storm, as he fought surrounded by dark, blurred beasts she could not – would not – properly discern. He moved with speed, almost unnaturally, wielding white knives flashing bright in between the darkness. She saw blood, bodies falling, broken on the ground. She saw a tumult of men and crude steel, rushes of blurred beasts too hideous to recognize.

But there was no sound. She heard nothing but muffled, nearly deaf, thickness. – Where was the elf? – She had lost sight of him in the maelstrom of battle. She opened her eyes but kept them glued to the ground, and she noticed that she was holding the palms of her hands pressed to her ears. She heard only the soft, dulled murmurs of the people around her.

And it was good to not hear it all. The most terrible noises were the soft, yet constant, keening sobs of the woman who had had no choice but to let her boy go to battle. She had stayed close to them ever since the soldiers had separated her from her child, ever since her mother helped her to rise and stumble along with them to find shelter in the cave, while her boy would fight unprotected out there. And like her, there were so many others crying for their sons, their brothers, their husbands, their fathers out there, where the thunder hailed from.

She studied the ground, the stone beneath them, of a delicate light green colour. She lifted her eyes, only to let them drift a bit further away, avoiding the people but following the intricate shape of the stone, curious and sleek, and in a way steadfast and comforting. And then, when her gaze returned to look down at her own feet, she saw it; a tiny stone, oval and light green as its surroundings, with a thin white line running all around it.

And she dared uncover her ears and reach for it. It felt comfortably smooth between her fingers.

Without hesitation, she placed it into the hand of the crying mother beside them.

"This is for your boy," she said, eyes still to the ground. "What is his name?" she then asked shyly, lifting her eyes to seek those of the woman.

The woman had stopped crying, surprised. Staring at the gem in her hand her lips formed the name of her child, "Gram," she said with emotion in her voice, "His name is Gram."

The girl glanced at the woman with the wide, expectant eyes of a child, as the woman's gaze swept from the stone to her.

"Then give this to Gram, when he returns." She simply said and saw how the mother's fingers closed around the pale green gem.

"Thank you," the woman said, her voice slightly shaking, the stone firm in her hand, "Thank you, my girl!"

"Yes, it does," the mother said, lost in thought, "And fierce he is, my boy. His dream is to join the Éored when he is grown. He is good with the horses, and he just started sword training. I pray that it might be enough to keep him alive."

It was a small hopeful moment, soothing and quiet between the sobs and the crying. And the girl decided that she would no more listen to the heartbreaking and fearful wails around her. Her eyes searched for more beautiful, quiet stones, and there she spotted another one just a little bit farther away. This one differed in shape and colour; more flat and jagged at the edges and its green was slightly darker than the one she gifted to Gram's mother, and it was lovely speckled with white in between.

She needed to get it, but as she slipped out from under the protecting arm, her mother reached out to hold her back, her grasp almost frantic.

"Please Mother," she called out, too loud, "I wish to do something at least. I want to help as I can." Her mother looked scared to free her from her hold, and the girl felt regret for shouting at her. She felt like she might have hurt her. So she said softly, "Forgive me, mother. But please let me do something for them!"

Her mother released her, hesitantly, and the girl took a few steps to reach for the little stone. She turned, holding it out and stumbling towards her mother, "Look how beautiful, mother!" she said eagerly. "There are more, you see, let me find them! They are for the brave men and boys fighting outside, for when they return. I will give one to each of them, please let me do this!"

Her mother glanced at the stone and then into her daughter's expectant eyes fondly, "It is beautiful indeed, darling!"

She hugged her child tightly, struggling to appear strong while unable to hold back the tears. She seemed to not want to release her again from her embrace.

But then the girl felt a hand on her shoulder, and her mother slowly let go. They both looked up to the young woman in surprise. It was the Lady of Rohan, gazing at them, her eyes bright and comforting. She gave a curt nod and spoke to her mother.

"If you permit, I would take her just around the corner there. There is something I would like to show her. I know this place well. My brother and I, we used to play here. We will not go far and I promise to return her safely to you."

While she spoke, she smiled softly, yet it was a sad smile the girl thought. The Lady of Rohan looked sad, but oh so beautiful, and the girl could not believe it was real that she was so close, speaking to them, gifting them with her attention.

Her mother seemed similarly in awe because all she did was to nod without uttering a word, eyes wide and staring at the lady.

"Well, Sorwyn, I will show you something you might cherish. Would you like to come with me and see?"

Sorwyn nodded excitedly, glancing shyly towards her mother, and her heart eased even further as her mother nodded quietly and reassuringly at her.

And so she went with the princess, her tiny hand firmly held within the slender and strangely strong one. On their way, the Lady Éowyn whispered complicitously to her.

"You know, I understand very well, that you wish to do something to help. I will show you a secret. My brother and I used to collect gems as a game when we were children. There are beautiful ones in these caves, like the ones you found. We used to venture far, where the colours are rich in variety. We cannot go there now, because your mother would worry. But I know there are more of these stones scattered there where we used to play. They are lying there, since then, waiting for you to find them."

Sorwyn glanced at the Lady, wide-eyed and as she then stood still and released her hand, the child went off to search the cave floor. Tirelessly she bent and collected the gems which looked special and lovely to her. As if the more she would find the more of their people would return from battle. Every stone she found had its own beauty and hope, as she thought at how she would place them in their hands; the calloused hand of a soldier, the shaking frail hand of an elderly man, or the soft, slender hand of a boy. The gems were patiently waiting for them.

The whole time, the Lady Éowyn watched her, while also keeping watch on the other people as was her duty.

When her small leather pouch was filled, and also all of her pockets, the girl was finally satisfied and with a soft smile reached the Lady Éowyn, who escorted her back to her mother.

She paid no more heed to the thunder shaking both stone and air, and even now she forced herself to ignore it completely.

She opened her pouch and plenty of small stones tumbled out, of different shapes and colours; some were grey streaked with white, others greenish, some jagged, some sleek, bigger and smaller, from rose to purple, to blue, to green, they shimmered slightly, not one looked like the other. And in the midst of them was a crystal, slightly larger than the other stones and neatly chiselled in shape, gleaming, transparent and clear between them.

"This one is for the elf!" she said determinedly with a serious mien. She carefully reached for the crystal and held it up so that it reflected the light in bright beams upon her cheeks.

"The elf, have you seen him...?" Her gaze searched her mother's, and then that of the woman, the mother of Gram, "He is a being like the ones in the tales, in the legends. He will not fall! I know that!"

"And this one," she pointed her finger, her tiny face beaming, "This one is for him; two beautiful stones for Gram. He will return to receive them!"

Godliss, Gram's mother, smiled between tears, as she gently cupped the child's face. "Gratitude, my little Sorwyn, from the depths of my heart! You bring such hope."

The time they waited in those caves seemed unending, but now Sorwyn had her stones weighing in her pouch at her belt, and in her pockets, and it balanced the weight from the fear and the sorrow filling the cave. Those stones even muted the thunder and the screams, when her fingers ventured to feel the different shapes, while her other hand firmly clutched the crystal.

It was morning when the terrible thunder ceased. She was tired and she would have wished to sleep. Her eyelids were heavy as she stumbled along close to her mother and out of the cave, driven by the crowd. She blinked into the crisp morning light. The sun was shining brightly. They had won, she heard the people say. But then the Lady Éowyn's voice cut through the calls and the murmurs.

"Do not bring the children further down!" she warned, "Our losses are high, and there are bodies all over the ground of both friend and foe. My brother and his men have returned," she said, voice shaking with emotion, "they are working, but do not make the children see…"

Sorwyn was confused and frightened by the tumult unfolding around her, soldiers carried the injured into the burg, some of them were hurt themselves, and most looked starkly strained. Healers materialized out of the crowd, and hurried about, taking up their work.

Godliss had almost turned mad with unrest, now that she was so close to knowing if her boy was among the living or the dead. She could barely breathe, and it took Sorwyn's mother much effort to calm her.

Boys rejoined their mothers, husbands their wives, and fathers hugged their children tight. There were reunions and tears of joy, and at times desolate screams when a long-dreaded message of certainty reached its destination.

Godliss was crying again and would not cease, watching out for a sign of her boy, on every side, with each new arrival.

And then, in between the people standing or hurrying about, kneeling or lying on the ground, Sorwyn spotted the elf. He looked slightly dishevelled. His pale skin was dirtied and sprayed with dark blood, but still, he starkly stood out, tall and fair, moving towards them in long strides, carrying in his arms a slight, still form.

She heard Godliss cry out beside them. The woman stumbled and fell to her knees, holding out her arms towards the elf and his burden.

The elf lowered the boy to the ground with great care, cradling his head into the lap of his mother.

"He is alive, my Lady." he spoke softly, his voice warm and soothing, "He will live. He has taken a blow to the head. But he is conscious. Talk to him, he will hear you!"

And Godliss kissed Gram's face, wetting his cheeks with her tears, sobbing incessantly.

She looked at the elf through her tears, and she shook her head very slowly as the words would not come, her eyes filled with emotion.

"From deep in my heart I understand; you do not have to speak." the elf's velvety voice reached her, "I have to go back to help where I can. My friend promised he would come to see him. His hands will help heal him." He added reassuringly. – He meant the ranger with the elf-eyes. Sorwyn had heard that he was also a healer.

But before the elf could turn and leave, the girl stood already behind him, pulling slightly and insecurely at the dip of his tunic, calling for his attention.

"I–" she stammered, "I– want to thank you…" she managed. Her heart hammered wildly, and she felt her face become oddly warm. And then hurriedly she added, before the courage might leave her, "…for fighting for us, and bringing Gram back to his mother!"

The elf went down on one knee so that he could see her almost at eye level. But still, he was taller than her.

"I have collected these for the men who fought so bravely out there." She opened the small leather satchel for him to peer inside.

His gaze was endlessly soft, the blue in his eyes deep and warm when he looked back at her.

"Sorwyn," he repeated thoughtfully, and she found that it sounded so different from his lips, so... important.

"It means sorrow and joy." She knew the meaning of her name, but she had never really thought about it.

The elf looked into her eyes so deeply that she got the strange sensation that he saw her very soul, and she thought that never before had she felt such an intense gaze.

"Your name is beautiful. It could not suit you better. You bring joy into the midst of sorrow!"

She fidgeted again as her hands trembled with excitement, rummaging in the pouch.

She held out the crystal for him. "This one is for you, it is the clearest, and brightest, and so different from the others."

She saw him swallow and blink, as he accepted it into his long slender hand from her tiny, soft one. He stared at it and ran a finger over the smooth, limpid surface. And then he held the clear stone to his heart, taking a deep shuddering breath, gazing at her. She saw moisture welling in those almost transparent eyes. His lips slightly trembled.

His lips still quivered as he finally answered, "Yes, they do, my child... they do cry!" And he closed his eyes, allowing a clear rivulet to slide down his cheek, and leave a clean streak on his dirtied features.

He took a deep steadying breath before he spoke again. And this time he smiled, warming her heart.

Feeling happy and encouraged Sorwyn then said: "Wait– I would ask you something," she reached into her pocket and revealed a perfectly smooth, dark-grey, almost black, gem cupped in her hand. It held a mild pearly shine.

"This is for the healer with the black eyes. I saw you speaking to her... She soothed my sister's pain. Please, can you give it to her?"

The elf's lips parted in a silent gasp, and so, worriedly, she quickly added, "Did I do something wrong, my Lord?"

He slowly shook his head, frowning, "No, penneth. You have done everything right!"

He briefly closed his eyes, pressing the stone in his hand until his knuckles turned white, his soft breath slightly hitched.

"I will give it to her, my child. If ever I meet her again – I will give this gift to her."

"I thought the gem looks like her eyes." the girl said, relieved, and smiling shyly.

"It does, little girl, it truly does! – Go now, Sorwyn, go and share those great little gifts. They will bring joy and help your people heal."

The girl nodded, then watched the elf as he turned from her, moved away and disappeared into the crowd.

Éowyn wears not the title of princess, but in the little girl's mind, she is the princess.

I wasn't sure whether to post this here because the OC who already made an appearance in the first two chapters takes up some more space here. But then today I felt like posting it, since I like Éowyn in here. I hope you also do. (I mentioned before that the OC is from another longer story I posted on ffnet and AO3, but you may read it just as any unknown OC here, maybe contrasting or emphasizing Éowyn's character.

Hisses and short, yet sharp shouts of effort soared from behind the rock. Then a pause and fast breathing, and then again swift footsteps dulled by grass and moss and blows cutting the air.

She dismounted and left her horse behind, her thoughts not very coherent as she circled cautiously around the rock to get a sight of the happening. She had left the forest to seek for something. But she had come far, not even knowing what it was that had made her leave.

As she approached it sounded louder and louder in her ears; the fierce breathing, the sharp hisses of a blade in the air, and a female voice bursting out strength.

Still, she heard no clash of blades nor their sickening plunge into flesh, and there was only one voice, one panting breath, always the same.

She slid past the edge of the rock and upon seeing the scenery, surprise moved her ever closer, one step after the other, slowly, unthinking, fearless - mesmerized even.

As if through a soundless warning that suddenly ringed through her mind, her feet stopped, and she stood perfectly still. A light, flying dress came swirling before her and the point of a sword was held firmly against the hollow at the base of her throat. A pair of grey, menacing eyes stared at her.

Just one thrust and she would be killed. But strangely, she did not care in that moment. She only stared with dark, dazed eyes deprived of fear. Her thoughts slowly regaining meaning, she regarded the woman holding the sword to her throat intently.

The woman was very young. Her slender frame still heaved with her excited breathing, her nostrils flared, her long hair gleamed a light gold and blew fiercely behind her, sent astray by the wind.

She studied the storm in those eyes and recalled the motions that had surprised her, before, when she approached. The girl had been handling the sword with the smooth and skilled motions of a fine warrior. She had been training. Hidden behind the rock - and the intruder had glimpsed her secret.

The storm in the girl's eyes ebbed down, and she faltered. The stranger could see her slightly confused gaze wandering down over her body, scanning the unexpected presence. And when those eyes rose to meet hers again, she noticed the frown in the young woman's features, the slight crease between her delicate brows.

The stranger slowly lifted her hands to provide the evidence, and breathed deeply, studying the young woman's pale visage.

"That I am, as you can see," her voice came out even more raucous than it usually was, since she had not spoken in a very long time and not even sung from the day she left the forest.

But the young woman seemed unimpressed by her appearance. She lifted her chin and her eyes flashed as she literally threw the words, "Do you always sneak up on others like that? I would take care next time, especially when they are armed. It could mean your death!"

She did not immediately react to the reproach, instead, taking another deep breath, for a moment she considered those words. She could not deny that the girl was probably right with her warning. But oddly, she found that it mattered not at all to her in that moment.

Indifference seeped through her voice and words as she retorted flatly, "You might call it sneaking, yet it was not. I am of another kind, our movements are different, and our ears are sharp, any of my people would have sensed my steps. I beg you pardon if I have startled you."

The young woman shot back immediately, "I have no fear of you, nor was I scared before. My sword was straight and my hand secure. A strike and you would have been dead. But I do not kill one that is unarmed. Yet, next time you should be more careful."

She did not reply to the fierce attack. This time it was her turn to frown. This young one seemed bold. And her gaze softened at the thought. She asked the question that still puzzled her.

The other took a sharp breath, narrowed her large grey eyes glistening with suppressed sadness and anger.

"I hide because they do not want me to fight. But I will train even more, no matter what they say! The time will come when they cannot restrain me!"

And in the grey of her eyes, a silver gleam was lit. The longing to fight and the dream of glory and prowess, of honour and battle - all burned brightly in her.

"I will defend my people! I will fight for them! I am ready to die if it is necessary to save all I love and all I live for!"

Those words so fiercely spilt from young rosy lips, and the girl's eyes, so brightly alight, hit her. She was at the same time impressed and saddened. Because for her there was no adventure in this world, no heroes, no glory in battle. Only illusions.

And so she spoke low, pouring into her words all the darkness lingering in her soul.

"From war only misery emerges! Heroes die and only grief persists and grows evermore."

She felt all her years of struggle and suffering. All the lives she had failed to save weighed heavy on her spirit. She asked herself, regarding this young one before her; was it naivety or was it strength?

"You are certainly not a warrior! What are you doing here in the hills, in times of war all alone and unarmed as you are? - And you are not of the Rohirrim, you look … different. "

"I am not from here indeed. I came from the South. I am not a warrior but I have learned what war is with the passing of long years. You were so ready with your sword, but you did not pay attention to my words. I said I am of another kind. I might look young but I am not. If I speak of long years they are long indeed, longer than you could imagine."

The young woman regarded her questioningly, unbelieving even, her lips drifting slightly open as if she struggled to make sense of her words.

The stranger did not answer but her fingers reached for her thick raven hair falling over her shoulder, and she tucked it behind her ear, revealing the arched pointed tip.

"I would never have guessed! I mean… Now I remember your words from before, they registered somewhere in my awareness, but I have not pursued them further… you look not the way I imagined them, nor as any tale I have heard described them to be."

The elleth shrugged her shoulders, "I told you I come from the South…" and she added nothing more on the subject.

The young woman blinked several times as if running those words through her mind. The wind blew some stray strands of her pale, silken hair across her face, but she did not bother to brush it away. Instead, she spoke to the elleth. The fine strands of hair ghosted over her lips as they formed the words.

"The South is dark they say. The darkness creeps ever closer and into our lands. I want to fight against it! We are at war! – But why are you here? Where is your kin?"

"Gone?… I-... am sorry…" the girl uttered, her eyes widening. She took a deep sigh, and sorrow veiled the bright grey of her eyes. "I know of loss... my parents died, when I was but a child."

The revelation struck the elleth, and she found that she had no words to offer. She bowed her head in respect for the girl who stood before her; one more child sharply marked by the cruelty of life.

The girl answered with a soft smile. "My uncle cared well for me and my brother, he and my cousin are our beloved family."

But then her eyes turned earnest and questioning again. "But you? Why are you here, all alone?" she insisted, "Did you flee? Flee the darkness and the war?" The girl pressed on.

So many questions all at once asked by this young one… How could she give answers that she herself did not even have? She knew not why, but there was such a genuine honesty about this girl that she sincerely wished to share more with her.

She felt such sympathy for this young woman, who still dared to hope and dream and be fierce, despite the mark fate had left on her.

Deep down she felt that Arda needed that. Young ones with dreams and hope and determination. And she decided that it was worth supporting, for there was unbound strength in it.

"I am not a warrior, but I did fight. Healing is like battle. It is a fight. A hard fight against misery, against pain, against death. You can lose or you can win. And every time you lose, with the one dying, something dies within. But when you win, the life of the one you saved revives your soul. And you will carry on. - I will never flee the war."

Éowyn could see tears well in the elleth's eyes before she quickly blinked them away.

It felt so strange; here stood a being so old as she had never seen in her life, carrying a weight of years and knowledge she could not fathom.

And yet she looked so deceptively young in that moment. The sudden moisture in her dark eyes made Éowyn's heart constrict. Caught in her grief, fighting back tears, she looked like a girl barely older than herself, and Éowyn felt the urge to comfort her.

The elleth allowed it, just briefly shutting her eyes, and then gazing back directly into hers with her deep black ones. Something about them looked lost, piercing, grieving and empty all at once and it made Éowyn shiver. She found it hard to stand that dark stare.

The elleth nodded in acknowledgement. Her gaze softened, but she did not smile as she replied in a low voice, "I am Mîaddar, of the Sirith, the Elves of the South."

Éowyn knew not what to do with the information. She had never met an elf before, nor had she known until now that Elves dwelled in the South. But the maiden of Rohan found it of no importance where this one hailed from, or that she looked different.

"You say you are a healer… come with me, there will be purpose for you. My people are in need. We are at war already."

The elleth took a deep breath, still staring at her. And it was to Éowyn as though a flicker passed through her dark eyes.

But the sadness immediately reclaimed its place. And even as the elleth stood tall before her, her whole being seemed to slump with heavy uncertainty.

The elleth regarded her with an unreadable look, unblinking and steady. And then she nodded. "I will come," she said, "I promise."

Mîaddar felt her own breath quicken in a surge of hopeful excitement, but even as she strangely trusted that unknown girl, she was uncertain about revealing emotions to her. So, bowing her head, her hand to her heart, she then turned, concealing her face as she slightly blushed with a sudden surge of energy.

She walked away leaving the young woman behind, feeling her stare burning into her back as she went.

"Where are you going?... You said you will come…!" she heard her call out. It made her stop in her stride, and turn back again to meet those fierce, hopeful eyes.

"I will… but not now… The fenced city on the hill, is it not? - When it calls I will heed it."

And this time she turned and ran, without glancing back again. Only once the girl could see her no more she slowed and took off her boots to feel the grass under her feet. She breathed the breeze that was carried over the hills, and she was suddenly incredibly thankful to this young woman, Éowyn, for she had offered her the next stage in her journey, her next purpose.

Written for Teitho Contest, July/Aug 2021 Challenge 'Divergence' where it was 3rd of only three stories entered.

In the Contest-Version on the Teitho page, the names of the OC's are changed and some small links to my other stories are largely erased, to avoid recognition for the contest.

Here it is posted as the sequel to 'Flames and Vile Men' and 'Words can not tell…', precedent chapters in this series. I originally planned to write one-shots here, unrelated to one another (yet all linked to 'Carried by the Wind' on ffnet and A03). But somehow it just turned out like this, and I must say I got very attached to this little girl.

This is for Legolass, who was wondering how the little girl would respond if she learnt about Legolas' wounding (AU that happened in CbtW). And when I saw the theme of this July/August Teitho Challenge the idea came to me, to pick up the term 'Immortality', which bears a divergence/discrepancy in the world of Tolkien.

Legolass was one of the first LotR-fanfiction authors I've read. Her stories are a wonderful tribute to Aragorn-Legolas-friendship and have been so very inspiring to me. I feel humbled she is reading my stories and supporting me with her interest. Go check out 'For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree' if you have not yet read it. It is very much worth it.

And always to mention Ruiniel who makes this all better with her skilled beta-reading, freely giving her time for my stories, even while she is working on her own fics. Thank you, my friend!

She heard the words again and again in her mind: "It is about the elf – he was struck by a poisoned blade." They hit her like a slap. And Godliss had run and left Gram with them. Her mother had lain her sister close to Gram, to watch over both of them. The boy was whimpering softly in his sleep, and her mother's firm hand stroked his back soothingly until he stilled and was once more breathing evenly.

But Sorwyn's heart hammered hard and her breathing became rapid as if she had run for miles, and it was as though something pressed on her throat, it was tedious and painful to swallow. She glanced at her mother, who was focused on Gram. Her little sister had now awoken and crawled into her lap. Sorwyn dared not to speak. She only stared, trying to make sense of it all.

… The soldiers had run into the caves, urgent, their footfalls thundering on the stone within. The men had spoken, breathless and grave. "… the elf… struck by a poisoned blade…" and Godliss' eyes wide with shock; she had left her son to the care of her mother and went with the soldiers.

Sorwyn blinked – blinked at her mother and wanted to speak, but almost dared not to voice it. She opened her mouth, but nothing came.

Then finally, she pressed her voice out. "Mother-" it was a soft whimper. Her mother's gaze met hers and she blinked again, "… Elves are immortal, are they not?" she dared the question.

"Yes, Sorwyn, they are; they can live forever," her mother said gently. But it was to Sorwyn as if a glint of sorrow quivered in her mother's eyes and she then turned her gaze upon the sleeping boy again.

Sorwyn stared at her mother and the people scattered in groups in the caves, stared at the stone on the floor and the walls, blinking and trying to grip it all –

… the elf — beautiful, tall and elegant… he is immortal… and strong, and brave, and lethal on their enemies… she had seen it, in her vision, in her dreams… he had brought back Gram to his mother… — but then the urgency…

"… the elf… struck by a poisoned blade…" Godliss' eyes wide with shock… she had run to aid… the gentle voice of her mother trying to soothe her… "they can live forever"… and the flick of sorrow in her mother's eyes before she looked away.

Sorwyn's throat tightened further until it truly pained her. She dared not ask more questions. She knew her mother wanted to protect her. She had not lied, and she had answered her question.

Sorwyn did not see the people, nor her mother, nor the stone around them as she now stared into nothingness, blinking more and more rapidly. She saw the elf, Legolas — he had told her his name. She saw his eyes; blue and deep like water — transparent, strange, but immensely gentle. She heard his voice, low and warm, like music linked to living earth, reminding her of the grass on the hills, moist soil, water-streams and trees of far forests. And then she saw those blue eyes shifting, becoming hard, like ice — impenetrable — gleaming silver. They reflected the blades' metallic flashes. His white knives blurred as they hissed through the air and cut — bright, sharp, ferocious and devastating. Smooth skin tight over high cheekbones, like sculpted stone, sleek and hard, his face impassive and beautiful. He fought for them, to keep them safe. Swift movements carried out with catlike grace, his body slender but powerful, his shoulders wide and strong. And then, as if out of nothing, his wild charge was stopped. She did not see how it happened. She only saw a crude dark blade sink into his chest, and bright crimson blood spurting. She pressed her eyes closed and could not see again, did not want to see more. Could not see him crumbling, slumping to the ground. But the brightness of his blood... she could not get rid of that last image, and the crude blade embedded in his chest.

She wanted to cry, to yell, but her throat was tight. And she did not want to wake Gram or startle her sister, even less worry her mother. She painfully swallowed, and blinked again — tried to blink the horrible image away.

Her mother's attention was all on the boy and her sister. And she did not look at Sorwyn again after giving her answer.

A being so bright could not die! Sorwyn thought of the crystal reflecting the light. "They are immortal… they can live forever…" But in her vision the blood had spurted, crimson, bright. And there was poison, the soldier had said.

"Immortal-…" What did that mean? Why then the urgency, the grave voice, the shock in Godliss' eyes, the sorrow in her mother's as she answered her question? — Sorwyn needed to see, needed to know. — He had to live! She had given him the crystal, the brightest gem. If he died, her world and all of her hope would crumble to dust and blow away.

Sorwyn's gaze was fixed upon her mother's back, bent with care over Gram and her baby sister — and slowly, step by step, she took distance. Her mother did not turn, she was unaware. And when Sorwyn considered she was far enough, she whipped around and ran.

Nobody paid her attention. There were people in the caves, recovering, some tending to others, some weary, reposing, children playing and moving about, and outside the caves, many were attending to various businesses; the burg, like a field camp, awakening in the morning.

She ran past all of it, until between the people crowding the area, she spotted soldiers standing firm in regular distances from each other, and behind them, there was a void extent, as if they built a wall they allowed nobody to trespass, securing the place.

She pushed past the people standing about, talking to one another, and peering the direction the soldiers were standing. Nobody noticed her. She was small and slid easily, making her way, until she reached the level where the soldiers were posted. There she stood still, barely breathing, peering out past the guard's legs and hips. At a distance, under the arcs, behind the pillars, something was happening. She stumbled along the line of the guards until she got a better sight. She froze, staring past the soldier towering before her.

They were all there on their knees, those important people; the Lady Éowyn with her fair long hair falling over her back, her brother, first Marshal of the Riddermark, the short but sturdy and strong dwarf, his mighty war-axe lying carelessly abandoned on the stone floor a few yards away. There was Godliss and the young apprentice healer who had left the cave together with her, urgently following the soldiers, and finally, the woman from Harad with the amber skin, her ebony hair tucked behind a pointed ear, and the tall handsome man they said might soon be king.

From where she stood, she could see his face; his firm jaw was set, his expression grim. He might become King but he was also a healer. He had come to see Gram when he was ailing at his worst and not allowed to sleep. The man's strong hands had been soothing as he examined and tended the boy's hurt, and his warm words had been pleasant and reassuring.

But now it was different; his serious face looked too pale and drawn, his silver eyes flashed with fear, and he looked almost… vulnerable. His hands and his eyes lay upon the prone body between them. She could not see much of it because their bodies shielded the sight, but even without seeing much, she knew it was Legolas who lay there on the stone. His torso was bare and very pale.

Too many were the thoughts swirling in her young mind; she could not grab them. She felt a strange void. But one bitter question settled and tormented her, 'He was immortal — how could that be? Why were they all kneeling around him, as if he was dying?'

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She sobbed and sniffed. The soldier before her must have become aware of her as she was crying. She felt his strong hand on her shoulder, his worried face appeared in her vision as he bent down. He regarded her with gentle brown eyes, his brow creased.

Sorwyn did not answer, and the man lifted her from the ground, settling her onto his hip. She struggled weakly as he carried her, walking towards his companion.

"I think the child is lost," he called, "secure my position, I will go look for the mother."

Sorwyn squinted out over his shoulder, towards the pillars where Legolas lay. She did not want to be carried away. She needed to see, needed to know. And as she kicked and struggled tiredly against the man's hold, she heard the scream; deep, harsh, and raw, and she thought it might shatter the stone. Her eyes were wide with shock and her heart frozen in terror. She stared back over the soldier's strong shoulder as he hurried her along. All she could see of the elf was a strand of his pale gold, long hair, his upper arm and one shoulder forcefully pressed to the stone. Strong muscles bulged and struggling, while they were all over him.

She struggled no more and gave in to the sobs, sniffed bitterly against the man's shoulder.

"Hush, little one, do not cry. I will return you to your mother. Surely we will soon find her." He stroked the back of her head, trying to soothe her. But Sorwyn did not react. She did not really listen. Her mother was tending to Gram, who miraculously had survived, and to her sweet baby sister. And she had said that elves were immortal, but she had not answered her question plainly. Maybe to protect her, to not rob her of the hope and innocence of fair children's tales.

"Sorwyn! My girl… why did you run away?" She heard the frightened voice of her worried mother.

"My Lady, what a relief to find you so quickly. I picked her up outside on the burg, between the tumult of people. I promised to find you, but she would not settle."

Sorwyn still cried as the man carefully handed her over into her mother's arms. She heard her mother speak words of gratitude to the soldier, even as she cradled her head in her hand and pressed her comfortingly to her breast. Sorwyn relaxed into the familiar, beloved embrace, and her emotions soared even more; she wept and wept and was inconsolable.

That scream! It would not leave her. She still saw the blood in her vision, bright and spurting, and she heard the grave voice of the soldier — "…struck by a poisoned blade…" — the prone body, so pale, and the struggling bulging muscles… Even as the tears blurred her vision; she saw it. Even as her own sobs filled her ears; she heard it.

Elves were immortal but not invulnerable, and in this war, they died as men did. She was now certain of it, and she wanted to tell her mother, but her throat was closed — she could not speak.

Despite it all, her mother's repeated gentle words soothed, and the strokes of her hand on her back eased her tense muscles. The kisses on her wet cheeks were sweet. And finally, partly by her mother's incessant efforts and partly by exhaustion, she calmed slowly.

She clung to her mother for a while. She needed to feel her warmth. Her mother held her close, so close she could almost deceive herself to believe all was well and the only thing that mattered in this world was her caring and protection. For a few long, deep breaths Sorwyn almost believed that her mother had the power to keep all away and let it be well. But then, beside them, there was a whimper, and Gram thrashed uncomfortably in his sleep. His face became tense and pained, and he moaned and mumbled something incomprehensible.

Her mother slowly eased Sorwyn from her hold and leant towards the boy, her attention shifting onto him. Sorwyn scrambled slightly away, allowing her mother more space for tending to Gram. Her sister was also still there. But she was sleeping again. It was wondrous how oblivious she was, and it was also a blessing.

Sorwyn watched her mother and Gram, and her placidly slumbering sister. The desolation overwhelmed her once more. — Nothing was well! — She thought of the elf, Legolas, strong, brave and fair, who was now lying too pale on the stone at the knees of these people.

Her tears ran in renewed streaks down her face, but she stifled the sobs. She did not want to attract attention to herself. It mattered not, anyway, because nobody could keep her anguish away. All was not well, and they would not deceive her.

"Oh, child," her mother sighed, her fingers brushed gently through her fine hair, but she said no more as she observed her concernedly, tears of sympathy shining in her own eyes.

Gram had stilled once more, and while, from time to time, Sorwyn's tears fell silently, she let them. She hunched close to Gram. Stroking his hair while he slept. It was soft and her fingers relished the feeling. This boy had been forced to fight; he had seen the monsters, the killing, the blood, and had survived as so many had not. He had been carried in the elf's strong arms…

Her mother quietly regarded her, but Sorwyn did not lift her gaze. The sorrow washed over her in waves and so, at intervals, she wept, again and again.

She did not know how much time had passed when Godliss returned to them, exhausted, with disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes. Sorwyn lifted her gaze then, eyes tearful, expectant and fearful — and still; she could not speak.

"He is mending well," Sorwyn heard her mother say, and Godliss breathed a hitching sigh of relief as she bent down to him. She caressed her son with such tenderness that Sorwyn's tears began to pour again.

When Godliss rose after a long moment, Sorwyn saw her mother reaching for the woman's arm. Squeezing it gently with a concerned, questioning gaze, she motioned the woman a bit further away.

Sorwyn observed them, holding her breath. She saw them speaking; hushed, for her not to hear. Godliss' face looked anguished and her lips quivered as she spoke, and then she suddenly was weeping and her mother held her in her arms while silent tears ran down her tired cheeks.

After Godliss had somehow recomposed herself, they did not hush their voices again. Sorwyn heard patches of sentences of what they said, and while they talked, they squinted over to her. She heard her mother mentioning her name, and she heard things like; "… ran away… brought her back…" and "utterly distraught… does not speak anymore…"

Godliss reacted gasping, "Oh dear!" and she covered her mouth with her hand in dismay, her eyes were startled wide, "I can only guess… should never have seen… and if she heard!" she exclaimed, failing to keep her voice levelled.

The women both turned towards her, their gazes worried and pained. Godliss took Sorwyn into her arms when she reached her, and Sorwyn just let it happen. She was unable to feel comfort though; the whole world was crumbling, and she trembled.

But Sorwyn did not believe these words anymore. The sobs soared unbidden, from deep in her belly hitching painfully in her throat.

As if through a daze, she heard Godliss' words, "You fear for Legolas, don't you? Do not fear, my girl, all is well..."

There, they kept saying it, trying to soothe her, trying to keep the cruel reality of war away from her. — It was not well! She had heard the crude scream. She had seen him lie there forcefully pressed to the stone, pale and helpless. The tall, beautiful being, with the crystal-clear eyes. He had fought for them; strong, fey, and lethal. She had given him her hope, the crystal. He was an elf — immortal! Her mother had kept up her illusion.

They wanted to keep it all away from her; the suffering of war, the death surrounding them. To preserve the innocence of the child she once was, but war made it impossible. She had lost it already, that innocence, and she could not be protected anymore — it was too late! She did not want to be deceived anymore. She wanted to tell them, but she could not speak.

They kept talking to her, her mother and Godliss, but she could not really hear them. Because her mind was tormented with the images of bright spurting blood, of pale strands of silken hair sprawled on cold stone, of a strong shoulder pressed to the ground, helplessly struggling and twitching, the heavy silence pierced by a consuming scream, and grave words like struck, blade and poison. It was all endlessly repeating. And they kept saying all was well…

As they seemed to despair, failing to calm her, behind the blur, she saw Godliss hurrying away. And as the woman returned, right behind her the Lady Éowyn followed. Like in a dream, the princess took the girl's hand in hers, "Come with me, Sorwyn," she simply said. Like the first time, Sorwyn stared at her in awe, and followed, scurrying along beside her, her cheeks wet with tears. Sorwyn glimpsed up at the Lady, and Éowyn smiled down at her. Sorwyn noticed she looked tired, but her smile bore a comforting quiet. She did not say that all was well. She simply held her hand, guiding her.

They walked up and up, where the people seemed far away, and the sky was close. Fresh air stirred around her and cooled Sorwyn's flushed, tear-streaked face. By the time they reached the top of the tower, her cheeks had completely dried. She blinked up uncertainly at the Lady Éowyn, who was still quiet.

There, in a sheltered corner, sat the man who would be king, his dark hair hung tousled about his face, and his features were edged by exhaustion; he looked as if he had just returned from a long stride through the wilds, and had even engaged in a fight. The stout dwarf sat beside him, and his eyes were strikingly soft and of such a warm brown that for a moment Sorwyn thought it did barely fit his strong, raw appearance. His gaze was resting on the white blanket before him. And he was holding a still, long hand that lay on the linen. Sorwyn held her breath, her heart thumped quickly; there lay Legolas. The blanket was drawn up to his shoulders. His still face was white like the sheet covering him, his eyes closed and his features so smooth that the softness utterly unsettled her. The girl trembled from the cold of the breeze stirring around her, or from the impact of the sight she was taking in, trying to make sense of it all.

The Lady Éowyn held her firm, squeezing her hand encouragingly. But she still did not say all was well. And Sorwyn was grateful for that. Because it was far from well. There lay an immortal being, who had fought for them, fey and elegant, broad shoulders and skilled hands coaxing a song from a mighty bow — a lethal song protecting her, protecting all of them — strong arms carrying back Gram; and now he lay there pale and still, and her hope… her hope had dwindled. This was war, and nothing was well!

The dishevelled and weary ranger-king then lifted his gaze to them, and when he nodded to her, his eyes silver grey and friendly, Sorwyn thought that despite his apparent exhaustion he looked handsome in his wilderness. She did not really know how to behave before a king, and so she blinked up again, uncertainly, to the Lady Éowyn. The White Lady gave her an encouraging smile and led her close to the man who held out his hand to Sorwyn. Without hesitation, Sorwyn found herself seizing the strong hand.

"My name is Aragorn," the man said while leading her close to him. "I know yours is Sorwyn, and you brought hope to the soldiers with your beautiful little tokens," he said tenderly, "Legolas told me."

Sorwyn swallowed, and still could not speak. Legolas had told his friend about her. She could not believe it. She did not think a small girl like her could be of importance to an immortal, that he would talk of her to his friend, who would soon be a great king. She could not make sense of it, as she could not make sense of all that happened.

As she now was so close, she stared at the elf. He looked peaceful, as if he was sleeping; he looked beautiful. But then she remembered the scream and the convulsing muscles pressed hard to the stone. She winced and went rigid, staring at where his chest lay under the blanket. She saw no movement, no rise and fall, and a desperate sob escaped her small lips. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes; he was not breathing; he was too still!

They all turned concerned eyes on her. Aragorn rubbed her shoulder and arm comfortingly. "He lives, Sorwyn, he lives," he said seriously, with an urgency that she might believe. And when she did not cease crying, the ranger drew her onto his lap. He took her tiny hand gently and laid it on the thin blanket over the elf's heart. And there, under her small palm, she felt it beating, and she felt also the soft rise and fall of his breathing. There on Aragorn's lap, her hand on Legolas' chest, the strong calloused hand of the king softly rubbing her fingers, she smiled at the Lady Éowyn from under her tears and at the dwarf, who both regarded her fondly, eyes bright with their own tears.

Sorwyn slowly calmed, but she now stared at Legolas' face. Hoping for something that would help her speak, because still, it was hard to swallow. As if he sensed her eyes and her hand on him, Legolas' long, dark eyelashes fluttered against his pale cheek, and slowly, he blinked his eyes open. Sorwyn watched the shifting colours in the deep irises and the dark of his dilated pupils recede as they wearily moved to take in his surroundings. Patiently she waited, breathing softly, not to disturb him, until his gaze rested on her.

"You live," she said shyly, and a small sob came again. "I thought… I—…," her breath hitched slightly, "I thought you were immortal, my mother said so, but—…" her lips trembled, "Now I know you can die."

Legolas gripped her small, chubby hand on his chest with both of his. They felt strong, warm, and reassuring as they wrapped around her cold fingers. She did not tremble anymore.

Legolas gazed at her for a long while. His eyes were crystal-bright and deep and transparent. She held his gaze, unwavering, bathing in it.

He looked concerned for her, not for himself. For she realized he had known for all his long life that he could die, and still he fought. She cried again as understanding washed over her, that this was real strength — and her courage returned.

The elf squeezed her hand tighter and smiled at her. She felt immersed in deep blue water, fresh and clear and gently reviving. She heard a music carried on the breeze; it sang of the grass on the hills, moist soil, water-streams and trees of far forests. His face was no longer white, still somewhat pale, but now she had the sensation as if he glowed with starlight, although it was day. And his features were noble, with his defined cheekbones and smoothly curved lips.

She loved her mother and her sister, and now Gram and Godliss. She had admired the elf and the man who would be a great king. But now she knew their names, and they had let her into their hearts. She would be with them when they fought and so would be her hope.

They were strong and bold, but not invulnerable. They would fight, and her hope would not die.

Sometime later, she knew not how long, the Lady Éowyn took her hand and securely led her back to her mother.

Thank you to all of you who are leaving reviews to my stories. It is always encouraging.

This is actually a full chapter of my longer Story Carried by the Wind posted on FFnet and on AO3, which is closely intertwined with Through Different Eyes. I think this makes a nice follow up to the happenings on the Hornburg with Sorwyn. And there is much of Éowyn in it, who is dear to me, so I decided to post it here.

She felt the cool nightly breeze catch in her unbound hair as she strode up towards the highest point of the hill where Meduseld stood, high, proud and kingly. Éowyn hurried past the great arched entrance, making her way around the tall building housing the Golden Hall. From the platform at the rear, she could oversee the gently swung hills stretch out wide around the fenced city. Her sword-belt was striped around her narrow waist, her hand rested on the worn leather. Her fingers trailed over the smoothness of it until they curled around the hard ornaments of her beloved weapon's hilt, gripping it, while her thoughts spun their ways, tormenting her. In her frustrated despair, she had clutched her weapon and retreated with it, letting it anchor and soothe her. Its familiar, mercurial weight steadied her.

She loved her home and her people and her people loved her, but now, behind the high wooden fence, she felt cramped and breathless. It was bad, so bad, that her breaths had become short, desperate gasps. Her mind swirled, making her dizzy, and her stomach was tight. She had no control anymore. She clutched almost hopelessly the hilt of her sword until it warmed, then became hot and clammy against her skin. Immersed in her anguish, she went to stand on the border of the terrace, balancing right on the edge as if she wanted to leap, to feel free and weightless. She sucked in the air, deeply and hitching, trying to calm her tense nerves.

Her hand then let go of the sword, and her arms hung now freely at her sides. She allowed her mind and heart to pour over the vast extent of grass that spread now dark in the night beyond the city. She imagined horse's hooves pounding on the rich earth, grass blades softly gleaming in the moonlight and bending in the streaming wind of the Mark. Éowyn fancied the hills blurring past, and the rhythmical movements under her, of a horse flattened in the speed of a mad gallop. She cried out loud from deep in her belly, from the bottom of her lungs, a long freeing shout, releasing all her anguish, her anger, driven by a boundless energy and sapped with longing. She inhaled the air that streamed past her and breathed slowly, deeply… Standing on the high terrace, she took in breath after breath, like sobs. The woman of Rohan let her head hang as if defeated, closing her eyes. She felt warmth running down her cheeks and then the nightly air cooling the wet streaks. She was weeping.

This valiant man, chieftain of the Dúnedain, exiled heir to a great lineage, this man bringing hope to Rohan, hope to her, would fight and stand when everything around them seemed to fall. He would suffer and die with them. He held so much love in his heart, was loved so deeply in turn… and had earned her deepest respect. She had seen his hope, his fear, his anguish and despair, his courage, his persistence, his valour. He had earned her awe and revealed a never yet discovered place in her heart, made it beat faster.

She wished nothing more than to fight by his side, for her people, for all that was dear to her, be part of something important that was about to happen in Middle-earth; something she craved for and had now reached her, brought along by this one particular man, concealed in the clothes and the heart of a ranger of the North. And yet he was so much more… simple, sincere, valiant and bold... a promise of hope... She wanted, she needed… so much more than to stay behind every time.

She clenched her hands into fists in frustration and turned her face upwards, gazing into the sky. It was veiled, but the stars fiercely glittered and shone wherever they found clear patches and spaces between dark clouds. She turned and looked at Meduseld towering before her, tall and familiar, crowning the hill. She clenched her fists tighter, her lips trembled.

Her blurred gaze swept over its high roof and suddenly caught and came to rest on a fair shape on its edge. Through the thin veil of tears, she frowned and blinked, watching in mild wonder as the shape unfolded long limbs and rose in a light, graceful motion.

"Lady Éowyn," a deep musical voice floated down to her. And she stared at the elf on the roof, slightly startled and stunned by the sight that seemed unreal in its fey delicacy. The elf slid down from the roof and landed soundlessly at the base of the building close to the young woman.

He regarded her, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Are you well?" he asked. Éowyn closed her eyes briefly, sucking in a long breath that she released in a heavy sigh. She then opened her eyes and looked at him. He stood at a small distance watching her, held her gaze with his eyes that were bright like the stars that showed on the free dark patches in the veiled sky of this night. For a moment she did not know what to say, as if all coherent thought was lost in the shifting light of those strange eyes.

He absently lifted his hand to his chest, and slowly rubbed his palm over the place where his injury had been.. From the corner of her eyes, Éowyn caught the motion, and a shiver rippled through her. He was close, his presence so strong that she felt his body warmth. And as all was quiet, the woman heard his soft breathing, which had now slightly enhanced with a surging memory.

Flashes of the recent events shot through her mind; of a heaving body at her knees, of hot clammy skin under her hands, of savage cries filling the air, fair features unnaturally contorted in torment, tear-streaked, alien eyes melted in a deep consuming madness.

Her own breathing became rash over the soft breaths of the elf, filled her ears, her awareness, and she trembled. She wanted to scream, flee this anguishing constriction choking her, feel free, ride over streaming grass in the wind of the Mark.

The elf said nothing. He stood beside her, staring out over the darkness beyond them.

Only a few words of understanding in his warm, rich voice comforted her. She had broken the silence and now she felt compelled to speak of it all, break the bars caging her. "I cannot bear to wait and see warriors return injured and dying. Or wait in vain while they will never return. I cannot bear waiting, doing nothing while the fight for my people and Middle-earth unleashes out there."

The rush of her own words whirled her into dizziness... furious despair. The blood in her body pricked and surged.

She became aware of the elf's even breaths, and the warmth and strange glow that emanated from him. She heard the wind rushing over the grass of the Mark, and it gleamed in the sun while she raced over the land of her home on a mad ride. It all melted into one soothing melody. Warmth flooded her limbs, increased until she burned with heat.

Éowyn was so swept up in the tide of her senses, in her longing, this dream, that she startled as the hiss of an unsheathing blade briskly punctuated the air, as the air beside her perceptibly coiled, shifted and prickled. She whipped around to see the elf poised, eyes narrowed; in his hand, one of his white knives glinted dangerously at his side. She gasped in shock and gaped.

He waited a moment, holding her gaze, sharp and unblinking, and then gave a nod with his head.

Adrenaline charged through her veins, blew her mind with something explosive, fierce, and her limbs tingled with anticipation. She did not think. Her hand flew to the hilt of the sword at her belt, and she drew the blade from its sheath with natural ease. She accepted the fight. She would push her limits, relish in the thrilling sensation of it.

Éowyn lifted her sword almost solemnly, holding his gaze, which was cold and hard and dangerous. Suddenly, flashingly swift, she shot forward, thrusting the blade towards him. There was a sharp clash of metal and a shrill hiss as Legolas parried, deviating the blow with such force it jolted through her whole body and she stumbled.

He sprang to the side, whirled around and the woman felt him close, too close; the warmth of his breath brushed her neck for a mere instant. But she had already recovered from her astonishment. Her reaction was prompt, well-schooled, and she hurled herself back to catch his blade with her longer, heavier weapon. The metal shrieked and further fueled her passion for battle. She was dizzy with it, brimmed with inflamed ecstasy. Her trained senses were sharp, focused, and so she was led by the dance of the elf as he sprang, pounced, and twisted away.

His blade was shorter, slender, but bit sharp and swift. It glistened and sparked, drawing bright arcs and patterns into the crackling air all around her, as if aflame. Gradually, the sensation of her skin burning, of her head pounding, stole her breath. Her limbs became heavier by the minute and with every motion, Éowyn found them increasingly hard to control; she was tiring.

The elf did not slow his speed nor retain his power. He unleashed upon her his inexorable, deadly elegance. She knew that if it had been an actual battle, not a sparring match, she would be strewn with perfect, painful cuts that, while not deadly, would considerably obstruct her abilities. They most likely would have meant her defeat. But even as she would fight to the last to stay alive, now her pride would not allow an easy defeat. With this resolve, her spirit soared once more.

After a moment of breathing that the elf consented to her, she joined him again into the dance to the song of their blades. It was awesome and thrilling. He seemed not to tire in the least and slashed more imaginary gashes into her flesh. She tried not to envision the pain they would spike had they been real. Instead, panting, Éowyn observed him intently, nostrils flaring, eyes furiously alight. He had not yet dealt out the last strike that would have taken her life, forcing her beyond her very limits. Her face was flushed, and she brimmed with self-confidence. He had challenged her, not holding back. She was awed by the coiled power of her opponent.

In a real fight, she would bleed and suffer, and he'd be unscathed. She knew Legolas would long have used this advantage to deal out the final, merciless blow. But she was not afraid, and she was not ashamed. He was not the kind of being she pretended to defeat or even match in battle. He was the kind who left her speechless and awed and so very glad that he was not an enemy. And then, she had seen him nearly defeated, exposed to a poison that almost killed him; her support had helped save him. She felt a trust between them that went deep. Éowyn had seen him vulnerable – even the most brilliant of warriors died… His resilience and his magnificence in battle thrilled her, pushed her to unleash everything that lingered furiously within.

She breathed heavily as she saw him bolt onto her, a dark, defined silhouette before the misty, glowing pattern of veiled stars in the sky; smooth, feline ferocity. He fought with two blades usually; she knew it. He wielded them swift and utterly deadly. They would have swirled and blurred the air, her vision, and when her sword parried one knife, it would have cried out, high pitched and shrill, while the other would have found flesh and pierced. But now just one blade came down towards her. One sword – one knife; that's how the elf had established fairness to the fight. Those thoughts just flashed through her mind as she saw the shaded, tight body fly in beauty and violence. Her eyes were wide as Éowyn stared at the white dazzling light glinting off the fine metal.

Time slowed, and it was but a fraction of a blink of an eye when she spotted his side unprotected. With a deep roar, she released the very last strength she could gather, swept out her long heavy sword, a mere hair away from his body along his side. The strike diverted his course, and he landed in a crouch in front of her, head bent, his hand pressed to his ribs where the sword would have sliced.

In full contact this blow would have cut deep, ripping him open from hip to armpit, not killing instantly but thoroughly crumpling and sentencing to final and terrible agony, so that a last stab to the heart would mean mercy.

Breathing heavily from the effort, Éowyn stared, startled, at the bent elf before her. His torso heaved, although he was utterly silent. She went down to her knees beside him, suddenly afraid that her sword might really have struck him. She stared at his strong warrior's shoulders shuddering and the long hand pressed to his side, her eyes fearfully searching for blood that, to her relief, she did not find.

Slowly, he lifted his head and gazed intently into her eyes. Éowyn held her breath for a moment, although it was hard to do so still strained from the effort. Legolas nodded to her, slowly, approvingly. The ghost of a smile played around his lips. From somewhere in the pit of her belly, a flurry of feelings soared. She felt suddenly light and euphoric, almost bursting with it.

He rose slowly and turned his face to the soft wind. The faint star-glow peeking out between the dark shrouds of clouds seemed to gather on him. His skin shone softly, white-gold and sleek, and his hair gleamed and drifted long behind him.

Éowyn saw him standing tall, fair and strong beside her. She took in his face, pale and noble, and then she looked away. A lump formed in her throat as the memory rose once more and tore her. She hitched a sigh, and then she said desperately, "I do what I can while I am waiting, but I am not a healer. It is not my call. I cannot bear it."

She blinked up at him. A shade dimmed the brightness in his eyes. And he nodded in acknowledgement.

"You are strong, my Lady Éowyn," he bowed to her, his hand pressed meaningfully to his chest, "You have my gratitude for all you did," he said earnestly. "You have proven much already. If you fight on the battlefield the way you fight for the wounded – and the way you just performed…" he turned his face to look at her, and his eyes glistened, "… you might defeat the most terrible of enemies."

She said nothing, but she felt a pull, a boost of excitement and confidence. Éowyn felt strong as she stood there quietly beside the elf, sensing the reviving melody soaring within her. She relished in the vision of the wind blowing over the grass of the Mark on the hills, the exhilarating sensation on her skin, caressing her, filling her. This was her own melody, she realized, and it soared from deep within her heart.

And then she blushed upon realizing the words full of respect from this warrior, seasoned beyond years she could imagine. She lowered her eyes and felt humbled, saying nothing about the fight.

"It was not my skills nor my knowledge saving your life, I only assisted as best I could," she quickly dismissed, "My Lord Aragorn…" she began… she had to pause on that name, and breathe twice before she could go on, "…my relief was great when he arrived. His hands are those of a born healer, his determination and skill I cannot but admire, and his heart..." she trailed off and silenced, dropping her gaze.

"He is a great healer, a fierce warrior and a true friend…" the voice of the elf was soft and warm as he spoke about the man.

"I have asked him to allow me to follow him," she said then in despair, "His eyes are so clear I can see understanding – but even he bid me stay."

"He has not the heart to answer the responsibility if he took you with him and you should fall," the elf said. "So much weighs already on him. He even tried to talk me out of following him after my wounding. But he has no command over me. Even if counted young among my people, in years I am far older than him. I made a pledge and a promise, and I will not listen," he laughed softly, his eyes flashing a stubborn glint, and he looked as young then as he was among his people, Éowyn thought.

The elf had stepped forward to the edge of the platform, where she stood before. His hair lifted softly by the light wind, and his shirt fluttered behind him. The icy breeze seemed not to affect him the least. He stood straight and still, leaning ever so slightly forward, and stared out into the darkness as if straining to listen. The wind flattened the light fabric against his body and she could see his chest rise and fall, but she could not hear a sound of his breathing, so silent he was.

Éowyn wondered what he heard or sought. And then – she knew not if it was carried along by the wind or if the elf close to her had somehow conjured it - she felt the air slightly shift, and a soft melody carried on it, like a lament, soft and quivering, and something else hidden in it; the rushing of sappy leaves, thick and dark green… and the sun, gleaming on a vast glittering plain… water trickling over stone… and a fleeting flash of dark eyes bright with tears.

She blinked and glanced at the elf, tall and unmoving beside her. His strong slender hand on his heart was trembling.

And then Éowyn spoke, as if it was clear what just touched their thoughts and senses, "I do not know how she can bear it all, for years over years of war and death, misery and despair unending. And yet she was there, again and again, when it struck; enduring, persistent, supporting a people at war even far from her home."

"She would not have carried through it all without your support, without your strength. And I would not be here anymore," he said dryly, still staring out over the plain.

Éowyn swallowed thickly, "I have seen her quiet despair, I know of her sadness, ever lingering… but that day I know she reached her very limit. I cannot guess what it did to her."

When he turned back to her, there was something else in his strange eyes, a quivering longing, and she thought she saw tears well and flicker in the starlight. But then he blinked, and it was gone. Focusing on her, his face brightened. His voice was firm and reassuring as he spoke.

"I cannot tell you what to do. Nor have I the right to do so. Only your heart knows your true call," He smiled at her again, soft and genuine, childlike. "It sings your song," he said. And he turned away.

Taking a slight hold with his slender hands on the rain gutter, he swept up the roof of Meduseld, light and nimble, seemingly with no effort at all. He swiftly climbed towards the roof's highest point and then disappeared from her sight.

Éowyn clenched her sword tight while she listened to the song of the wind on the hills, to the rhythm of horse hooves pounding on the earth of her beloved land and the long blades of grass streaming, calling to her heart. The beginning of her path was mapped out clearly before her, yet at the edges and in the distance, the map was blurred. But there she stood, straight and confident, and the cool breeze did not affect her.

There was a child, a little girl, who as so many, had been touched by the war. Amidst all the death, the misery and suffering back on that burg of dark grey stone, she had been a light – fragile, and shivering, and all the more precious. Sorwyn was her name; sorrow and joy. Such intangible meaning in a simple name of a child from a ravaged village of Rohan. The mere thought of this child he had come to know in those hard days on the stone-burg both tore and kindled Legolas' heart.

Their roads met again, here on this hill where Sorwyn might find a new home, at least for some time. It had been good to see her again. So good that Legolas could not explain it in words, nor would he want to. She looked up at him with those wide children's eyes, "I… I know you will fight," she said seriously. "Be safe, Legolas!" and her cheeks slightly flushed, so innocently young and puffy. She beamed him a trustful smile that set his heart on fire with flames of power, that would not burn him, but scorch all that could harm this little girl and all that was dear to him in this world. And before he could blink, she had bounced up at him, throwing her slim arms around his neck and broad shoulders. She clung to him with such eagerness that he was surprised at the strength of her small body, and nearly staggered. The elf held her tight, breathing deeply and then coddled her fondly, teasing blissful laughter from her lips. He whirled her around in the air, making her giggle and squeal.

The people looked at them, smiling, surprised that a small girl would so easily and naturally be affectionate towards a being they dared only behold from a distance. This child was building a bridge between the worlds. They both looked so young and serene, their fair voices soared, like wings, and many a heart sparked with hope. But still, they did not see all it meant, the unmeasurable depth in the gesture; only a few did.

The time had come for them to leave. Legolas hugged Sorwyn one last time, and set her down, so that immediately she could cling to the gown of her mother. He bowed low before Sorwyn's mother and Godliss, and then stood before them, his hand resting on his heart. The women returned his gaze, eyes caring, full of gratitude and hope but also insecurity and concern and other emotions impossible to put into words. The boy close to Godliss shyly lifted his hand in greeting, and Legolas swept his hand from his heart towards him as he went.

The elf then caught Éowyn's gaze. – She had seen, and she knew much of it, knew the greatness of the impact.

Then Legolas turned and joined Gimli and Arod, who were ready to leave, the dwarf already packed upon the horse's broad back.

"How on Arda did you get up there?" Legolas blurted out, both eyebrows lifted in amused surprise.

"That is of no import…" Gimli grunted, "I could have mounted up on my own, for all you know." He squinted at Legolas grimly. "Need a hand?" he offered with played dwarvish gallantry.

Legolas snorted and leapt off the ground to settle easily in front of Gimli. "No need. But gratitude, master dwarf, horse-rider." He smiled back brightly over his shoulder, where Gimli scowled and mumbled something about the politeness of dwarves that stayed unreturned and grumbled and growled quite indistinct things about wood-elves, poor manners and arrogance, that he did not mean but were part of the game.

Legolas ignored him, but secretly found those gruff words soothing, which was ridiculous, he thought. He smirked at his own thoughts, which pushed Gimli to grumble even more, which Legolas again ignored as if it was a rule of their game. Instead, Legolas spurred Arod and wheeled him around to once more pass by Sorwyn and her mother and Godliss and Gram. They gazed up at him and he smiled, drinking in the sight of those who had conquered a place in his heart. Behind him, Gimli was now finally well settled and distracted and raised his hand in greeting.

There they were going, all of them, towards the unknown and fateful battles ahead. Aragorn, his mien strong and determined. He looked straight at Éowyn bidding her farewell. She gave him her blessing and tried to conceal the hard hammering of her heart and her aching longing to ride at his side with the valiant Dúnedain, all broad, strong and noble men, but so utterly simple and weathered from a raw life in the wilds.

Close to him, as tall shades cast by two different suns, were the two elves whose faces bore the same smooth perfection. They shone in their bright mail and shimmering long raven hair as some warrior princes of ages long past sprung from a book of legends of the Firstborn. Like two divine protectors, they looked upon the man as a precious treasure they kept safe in their midst. And Éowyn thought how similar the man suddenly appeared to them. They looked almost like kin, like brothers; the same silver gleam in their eyes, proud and fierce. With great effort, she pushed down the tears that threatened to well and burst free from the storm of emotions raging within her.

Her gaze followed Aragorn as on his way he turned towards the young apprentice healer who had assisted with Legolas.She who stood with her friends. The girls looked up at the elves and the man, eyes wide, mouths slightly open. There was awe in their young eyes, but fear also. They stared and blinked as the imposing men passed them by, and they seemed to tremble and sway slightly. Their usually excited chatter was muted and lost for the moment. Aragorn lifted his hand in farewell and gratitude to the young healer, and she smiled and waved her hand shyly.

Éowyn steadily held Aragorn's gaze as he passed her by. He gave her a last, respectful nod, and she found that moment almost unbearable.

Further behind, she spotted Legolas on Arod riding with Gimli. And the girls that before had been in wordless stupor now suddenly fidgeted nervously in a surge of excitement, coyly glancing up at the two unlike riders in a flutter of lashes. Despite her sombre spirit, a burst of quiet laughter escaped Éowyn as she observed the scene. It was like a fresh gust of wind, a dancing flash of brightness, a welcome lightness, that broke through the thick gravity of these days. The elf caught the flicker immediately, and gracefully bowed his head at the girls, his face smoothing in a dazzling smile. Their cheeks flushed and gleamed fresh and rosy, which seemed to delight him further.

"My Ladies–" Éowyn heard him say in his warm, deep voice, while he inclined his head, bringing his hand to his chest. Éowyn saw the amused, heartened glitter in his blue irises. Gimli was waving at the girls eagerly, his warm brown eyes agreeably pleased and alight. He said something to Legolas, grinning, at which the elf narrowed his eyes, and with a mischievous smile on his lips, made a sharp noise with his tongue. As if responding to a trained command, the white horse bolted. The elf smoothly navigated the jolting motion and the dwarf hugged his waist in sudden urgency, looking both angered and terrified. Éowyn then heard him mutter grumpily – probably a curse – while clutching fast at the elf. Legolas laughed; his face was radiant, as if the clouds in the sky had parted only for him.

By the time they reached Éowyn, Gimli had calmed and greeted the Lady good-heartedly, wishing her farewell. Legolas' features became calm and serious, and his gaze held hers for a very long time. He said nothing, but his strange eyes shifted in the bright colours of a clear pool, speaking more than words. She listened to the melody surging within her, standing before him straight and confident.

She felt that same deep trust between them again as he returned the words of gratitude, bringing his hand to his heart. How many times had he done that gesture... But this time, it meant so much more to her; it meant strength and sorrow and hope, and she felt her resolve settle. Still holding his gaze, she mirrored the gesture.

His lips slowly curved in an encouraging smile. She smiled back at him openly, and this time, as she had often thought before, Éowyn was now sure he could read her; her heart pounded in the rhythm and strength of horse hooves on the earth; there was the wind and high grass around her, and on her hip, held by an ancient leather belt, she felt the comfortable weight of her weapon.

Legolas' smile widened, and then he swept Arod around and spurred him on, away from her towards Aragorn, who was already ahead leading the party of quiet and serious rangers to the Paths of the Dead. The pale early daylight caught upon him, and he glowed slightly as if he was riding to a completely different place. Behind her, she heard the young healer's friends gasp before their tongues loosed in lively chatter.

But the people retired fast, hiding in their houses, for the dread had crept into the city as they watched the reckless strangers ride towards the gloom and darkness of the Haunted Mountain. "They are elvish wights," some muttered, and others just stared and thought them bewitched or deranged, and yet many despite their fear were awed at the sheer boldness.

A little bit of cheeky Legolas in the ending ;) just to lift the spirit.

This is another chapter I took out of my longer story I'm posting on ffnet and AO3. The story of a young boy on the Corsair ships and his POV when Aragorn's Company and the Shadow Host take over the ships.

"Leyth! Come down, lad, come get your meal," Wali's powerful voice rose up to him, "soon, we're to sail, and you will need the sustenance."

Leyth sighed. From his position, perched on the ladder, he squinted down to where the insistent voice came from. But then he was distracted again by the wind and dipped his face into it, breathing deeply. He let his thoughts drift back to a time when all had been different.

"Come, lad, you cannot live from air and dreams alone. The wind will blow you down from there soon enough."

Wali's voice bore a warm, caring tone, and it was to Leyth as it reached up to him, cradling him, and with the surrounding wind, the ladder swayed gently. He took another breath, and let his mind float into memory…

He remembered the children he played with in their village. It was small, and they all knew each other. Sometimes he would roam with his friends outside. They would visit each other's houses, or all together they would come back to his. They helped their parents; simple tasks like cleaning the courtyard, or making fire, fetching water…they would follow their fathers and mothers to the fields. They worked, but their parents made it feel like a game. They would compete at who would gather the most beans, and then, at lunch break, they would play the game with the beans in the holes in the ground. Leyth was clever and often came out the winner. They would thresh the grains from the wheat. And, in between, they would play hide-and-seek, climb and jump from the walls; who would climb higher and who would run faster? They would play with the stones and the soil, dig grooves, pile up mounds and build their own little villages… the games were innumerable, they would never end, and he still remembered most. With his best friend Adil, he often led the goats to feed on the nearby hills. He loved the long strides, the peace and the freedom, and the talks and jokes he shared with Adil. They would return tired, with hurting feet. And they'd be rewarded for their help with a tasty meal crowned by dates or figs, fresh in the season and dried the rest of the year and then even sweeter.

How long had it been since he last savoured the taste of it…? How long had it been since he had spent a peaceful evening around a fire, clapping his hands to the rhythm of song and music, or listening to tales, tired and content after a day of work and games?

So often, when he was on the ladder or on the mast, the wind in his hair, the sails blowing, Leyth remembered. The sense of freedom he felt then was sweet, and it stung, for it was carried along with the wind, elusive, intangible.

The sudden voices on the ship startled him. He heard orders and answers, and saw the men in motion down on the planks. "Leyth, descend! Get to work!" a man barked up at him. It was Bashir, and his order had to be followed. Leyth flipped into motion and scrambled down the ladder. Bashir was already shouting into another direction, but shot him an admonishing glare. Leyth flinched and wheeled around to hurry to his task. His heart was in his throat, for he never dared fail an order given to him on this ship.

And while he set to work detangling the ropes, that day flashed back into his mind once more and took hold…

… the day when the foreign men burst into their village, armed with daggers and knives and swords, some curved some straight, some broad, some slim. But all were sharp, and the men were rough and violent. The people he knew were afeared. He remembered how they left all their work, all their games, at the menacing presence of the intruding men. The people slowly, cautiously, retired to their houses, in tense silence. But the foreigners chose some of the men of the village - the strongest. When they picked them out harshly, the men obeyed.

Leyth waited in their house with his mother and his siblings, not daring to speak. Time seemed to stretch into unbearable tension. The air pressed down on them, hot and heavy, nearly unbreathable. Outside, harsh voices tore through its thickness. When his father finally joined them, his face was serious, and his voice raw as he spoke. He said they would give him a sword and more knives, to carry on him and to fight, and he had to go with the men. Leyth's mother cried. She did not want him to go. His sisters and brothers sobbed and cried and hung themselves to their father's waist, clung to his legs. They wanted to hold him back. Leyth tried to stay strong. He asked his father why he had to leave. His father just said he had to do this in order to protect them; if he did not obey, something bad might happen to them. Leyth asked more questions as tears burst from his eyes; where he would go? Whom, or what, he had to fight with those knives and swords they gave him, and when would he return? His voice broke into sobs.

His father answered his many questions with one soft, "I do not know." He held him fast, clasping his shoulders.

"You have to be strong, Leyth, you are the eldest. Be bold, help your mother, and when you grow older, protect her and your siblings." His father's strong hand cupped his cheek. It was warm and comforting, and so deceiving. Thick, heavy tears welled in Leyth's eyes and ran down his face along the line where his father's hand lingered. The tears were silent. Leyth repeated the questions. His father bent down and hugged him close, and Leyth hid his wet face in the crook of his father's shoulder.

He tried to help his mother. In the village, they all supported each other. But all the strong men were gone, most of the fathers and the elder brothers, and only the aged, the women and the children remained.

They all worked hard. Their children's games had ceased. The laughter and liveliness had fled the fields. The rain had been sparse that year, as it often was. But this time it was different. The fountain, which had always provided them water in times of need – water to drink, to cook and to irrigate the fields – was now dry. It had never happened before. There must be another reason than just the scarcity of rain. They lost almost all of their harvest.

One day, a high-pitched, desperate cry woke Leyth. His mother hurried out of the house and when she returned, she told him the baby brother of his best friend, Adil, had died. The hard work and the lack of nutrition and water had left Adil's mother dried out of milk. She was going mad because she blamed the fault on herself, on her own weakened body.

His own grandmother could not walk anymore, her skin looked shriveled like old, torn parchment. Her eyes were dull, and she had no more the strength to wave away the flies that would gather at their crusted, leaking corners. Sometimes, when Leyth sat by her, holding her thin, bony hand, washing her eyes with a herbal infusion, she tried, but she was too spent to even smile. She fell asleep, and she did not wake again. Two other babies died soon after; one had been his cousin and the other, a friends' sister. Both of the same friend's grandparents had passed away just the week before.

Leyth and the other boys helped dig the holes, where the bodies were buried, wrapped in white linen. The sun was merciless. Their hands and arms hurt from the effort. Leyth remembered the pain spreading through him, how the sweat mixed with the tears, how he became dizzy, and his dry throat constricted and burned.

One day, when they were too worn out to even despair anymore, foreign men came into their village again. They appeared well-clad and formal, polite, surrounded by grim guards with weapons. They offered them gold, wanted to buy their dry fields and said they could provide food for them from behind the hills, which with the gold from the sale they could buy. The elders and the women retired for council, and when they returned, they tiredly agreed. What choice did they have...?

The gold lasted for a few more months because the council shared the rations and they were used to scarcity. Families were split because many, like Leyth, went to work over the hills where the soil was richer. They worked hard from dawn to dusk, and they were allowed no breaks. They got their pay at the end of the day, but the few coins he received would have only been enough for one proper meal. All the same, he saved more than half, and ate only what he must, as to sustain himself into the next day without crumbling on the field.

Some of Leyth's friends were working alongside with him. They rose with the first light of dawn, and the work was silent and hard. They were not allowed to talk or to sing. When dusk settled, they would return to the barracks, exhausted and hungry. They would eat blankly and crumble to immediate sleep. It was then, mostly, that Leyth dug out the pouch he had hidden in the sand under his sleeping mat, slid the unspent coins into it, then clutched the pouch to his heart until his fingers hurt from the pressure. It was then that he allowed himself to weep and remember his mother, his siblings, his father, his cousins, his friends… and thought of the games, the laughter, the smiles, the joy he had felt in his simple and peaceful child's life. Only some few more days, some few more coins, he thought, as he hid the pouch in the earth under the mat once more. And then he wept himself into sleep, missing them all, missing the life he had lost.

Leyth stumbled and bumped into a firm, strong body. He lifted his face, eyes wide and fearful, his lips half-open, already stammering words of excuse. But it was Wali's friendly brown eyes that met his, and the man clasped his shoulder soothingly.

"Peace, Leyth," he comforted, but then with a stern undertone, he added: "Gather yourself, lest you bump into one of the others."

Leyth only nodded and made to scurry away. But Wali caught his arm and pulled him back.

"Here." He produced a piece of dried meat and a handful of bread from his pocket. "Eat," he hissed, squeezing his arm and glancing at him sharply, before letting go.

Leyth told nobody, not even his friends. He left the barracks at night. That evening, he spent all the coins of the day on food and water. He knew his village lay beyond those hills where the sun was settling every evening. He walked all night and all day. The food soon dwindled. But that was not the problem; the water was. The hills seemed to stretch endlessly. The second night, he slept for a few hours, so exhausted was he. He drank the last drops of water before he set off again. He had underestimated the journey, thought himself strong enough, and the way much shorter. But the hills stretched endlessly before him, and he hurt so badly!

But Leyth walked - because what would become of his mother if he died now? Who would protect her? – It was night when from above he saw the village. The moon shone, and it gleamed silver, unreal, like in a dream. It blurred and darkened and glimmered as he stumbled downhill. He tripped, and the pain slashed through him, but he scrambled back onto his feet only to trip and fall again soon after. He was weeping, he could not give up now when he was so close! He did not remember how many times he got up, how many times he fell, only that in the end he reached the village and there he collapsed. The entire world was shrouded in a dull ache, and then he knew no more.

Time must have passed as he became aware of a bustle of voices because he blinked, but the light was too bright. It hurt his eyes and shot spikes into his throbbing head. He closed his eyes and did not open them again, as he felt himself being hoisted up by several arms. The surrounding voices were agitated. He could not move as he was jostled along and then laid down carefully. Only much later did he wake. Water trickled down his sore throat, blissfully moistening his mouth. And as he blinked his eyes open, the beloved face of his mother stared back at him. He was back in their little house. And his mother hugged him, and cried in both relief and grief.

Leyth had just finished the last bite of meat that Wali had slipped into his pocket when a heavy silence surged from the dark water and crept to cover the ships and the harbour. But high above, the still wind blew, rippling the black banners. Leyth paused in his stride. Thick muteness wrapped around his heart.

He had vowed to protect his mother. But what could he do to change the fate that was upon them? So much had happened as he'd been away to work over the hills…

He remembered his baby sister, how he held her in his arms before he left. How she had wrapped her tiny fingers around his thumb. How she gurgled in delight when he kissed her tender neck. She had been so slim and fragile. And while he was away, working for some coins in the fields, she had gotten sick and died. He would never hold her again.

His lively little brother, who had been loud and laughing and would never sit still, had no more the strength to run; he could barely walk at his return. Leyth remembered his slim, fragile limbs and the hard, bloated belly. The flies began bothering him like they had his grandmother. And one morning, he too did not wake anymore. Leyth wanted to remember the shiny child with the bouncing locks, his excited squeals, his laughter. Not the still, emaciated form with the huge, suffering eyes.

His mother looked weary, consumed, but she carried on, despite the tears. Every day she worked in the fields, with the other people left in the village. His other sister was caring for their home and their little siblings. As soon as he recovered, Leyth joined the workers on the fields again. Since the land had been sold to the new owners, the water had miraculously returned. They were still not allowed to sing, nor to pause. At the end of the day, they would get paid, each pay enough for one proper meal. But there were still five more mouths to feed.

Sometimes in the evening, armed men came along. They entered their courtyard without asking permission. Every time, his mother shot up and hurried towards them in obvious distress. Leyth could not hear what she said, but he could see that she was begging. He did not like the way they looked at her, nor the way they glanced at them over her shoulder. She always followed them out of the house and would stay away for a while, and when she returned, she was all dishevelled. – Sometimes her clothes were torn. Her eyes were dull and her cheeks dry, but streaked where tears must have run through the dirt. Leyth knew what his mother did, and that she did it to protect them, hoping the men would be sated with her so that they would not lay hands on her children.

He hated those men. He wanted to kill them. But what would be of his sisters and brothers? What of his mother if he did that? They would take him away from them, kill him, or worse?

Other men would come, and all that would change for his mother was that she would have lost yet another child.

The men on deck turned their heads towards the mountains. Some froze, some gasped. Leyth blinked and squinted and his eyes widened in shock as he took in the fog that poured down the slope at frightening speed. From afar, he heard the thunder of pounding horses' hooves on the earth. It rolled down the mountain like a landslide. The fog thickened as it relentlessly approached. Distant hisses pierced the oppressing silence, like voices not of this world. Ice-cold. Dead. What was happening? Leyth's heart hammered. Was this the end? Would he ever see his mother again?

He had promised her he would return. That day she had wept, begged him to stay, as she had done with his father. But Leyth could not bear it anymore, to struggle each day for nothing, to suffer, to witness his mother's silent despair and to fear for his siblings. He was the eldest. His father would want this from him. And so, he took the way of the sea. Adil had left before him. He had heard that they were recruiting young men to help on the ships. Those who worked well would get a good share of the goods the Corsairs brought back from their sailings. And he would leave the close shores to see other lands. With some luck, he could find a place to settle, work hard, to one day return to his family with enough in his pocket to buy them their freedom.

The cold fog swept over the harbour, and Leyth realized, frozen in horror, that it was not fog but grey, vaporous ghosts on flying ghost-horses. Their eyes gleamed eerily, yearning for death and piercing through the swathes. Their empty, sinewy limbs bled grey vapour. They wielded swords and spears, lacking substance but cutting ice-cold. The swishes of their blades were accompanied by battle hisses out of dead throats.

The ship was suddenly filled with the screams of the men, and a tumult broke out as many ran blindly to save themselves. Some stood frozen, horrified, swords unsteady, wide eyes blank. Leyth's heart pained in anguish at the thought that this was the end, and his mother would never see freedom again.

Leyth saw men leap from the ship in mad fear. And even if most knew how to swim, he also knew the strong pull of this broad river would drag many to drown. The ghosts encompassed all. They followed and pressed down on the water. Leyth huddled himself low against the balustrade, trying to hide, but the chill of the fog reached every corner. There was no escape. He hid his face, arms flung about his head.

As he peered out between his shaking limbs, afeared, he saw a clear shape emerge from the opposite balustrade and, with a fluid leap, land silently on the dark planks. It was a young man, a few years older than him in appearance, and he glowed, fair and fearless in the middle of the cold grey mist. Leyth stared, briefly forgetting all else.

He was not the only one having noticed the stealthy invader. Even from the crouch where he had landed, the young warrior shot up with a speed that seemed alien, unnatural. On his back, he carried a great bow carved of fair wood, and two long knives were strapped just beside it, revealed by their gleaming white handles. Daggers of different lengths were sheathed in his belt. But he used none of his weapons as he met the bulky, yet terrified and unsteady attackers. He struck them down with effective punches and kicks. Leyth gasped as he observed, transfixed, the tight force of that slender body. And while he followed his movements, in his astonishment, he had missed that other solid shapes had reached the deck.

A very short, sturdy man, amply bearded, rumpled over the planks, and the hilt of his axe hit hard those who did not run from him or the ghosts. Just behind him in a powerful charge leapt two identical warriors, clad in black. Their armour gleamed silver, and their raven hair fell down their backs, so sleek it gleamed almost blue in the eerie light dimmed by the fog. They looked beautiful, mesmerizing, but too perfect, too sharp, deadly – like demons – thought Leyth with growing panic. His arms before his face were shaking badly, and he shot up, eyes darting around for an escape, one that would not bring him to immediate death; but as much as he spun around, caught in his panic, he could find none. There was mist all around, the gleaming eyes of the ghosts, the cold sharp hisses of death, and unknown, bold warriors now accompanied by some strong, unfamiliar men. The only way of escape would be to leap to immediate death into the dark water below. But Leyth wanted to live. There was his mother waiting for him, far away. One day, he wanted to give her a home again.

Leyth called out for his elder companion, "Wali! Wali! Where are you?" But there was no answer.

Instead, he caught sight of Bachir on the opposite side of the ship. The captain had been thrown back by a hard punch of one of the twin warriors' sword hilts. Leyth saw him scramble back up just for his jaw to meet the swift fist of the warrior. He crashed to the planks and moved no more. But Bashir was hardy, and when the warrior turned because he thought him unconscious, Bashir raised, lunging forward, sword pointed to impale his opponent's unprotected back. There was a raw shout of alarm in a strange, unknown tongue and then the dark warrior whipped around at a speed that Leyth's eyes were not able to follow. The next thing Leyth realized was that the beautiful, sharp warrior stood tall, sword bloodied, over Bashir's collapsed body, nostrils flared, silver eyes narrowed, gleaming in a wild mix of anger and anguish as he took in the body slain by his own sword. It was to Leyth as if the silver gleam in his eyes was fluid with tears. The warrior looked up at the one who must be his twin brother. Their eyes met and held for a moment as if finding comfort in each other, an understanding, before they both lowered their heads briefly in a reciprocal gesture.

The day Leyth had reached the havens of Umbar, the sun had been high and his throat, dry. At the end of his strength, he had applied to join the ships. Bashir had summoned him to his crew with a curt nod of his head, and Leyth had been intimidated by his stern mien and the lack of words. Then Bashir had handed him a tin of fresh water.

He had always been straight and strict with Leyth, as he was with every member of the crew. He had been a man of few words and clear, direct orders. His authority had never been questioned or challenged by any man under his command. It was natural. And Bashir had never taken advantage of it. He had never beaten nor humiliated another man of the crew, not even a young one like Leyth.

Leyth knew this was not the way on every ship. Adil had told him that he often was suffering. Floggings were not a rare punishment for the lesser or younger men on his ship. Leyth, who had been worried for his friend, had decided to ask Bashir for a possibility of moving Adil to their ship. But he had not yet found the courage to address Bashir on the matter, for fear of not catching the right moment, of being ignored and losing the one chance. Bashir had always been just to them, but what Leyth did not know was whether he cared.

Bashir was dead. And with the image of the man's bloodied body and the silver gleaming eyes and armour of the warrior who dealt the lethal strike in his mind, Leyth ran panicked through the grey mist. In front of him, he saw a material shape through the swathes. A coiled brume of ghosts swarmed towards it and the man that slowly came into view had no way of escape. He screamed in deadly terror.

"Wali!" he called, "Wali!" He screamed as the man was pressed back and then just disappeared from the ship.

Leyth dashed towards the balustrade. His mind formed only one thought and determination; he would not lose him! Leyth hung himself over the railing and caught Wali's arm before the man fell into the river below, but he was heavy, and Leyth could barely hold him, lest pull him back up onto the ship.

"Leyth!" Wali screamed over the rushing of the water and the hisses of the ghosts, "let me go!"

"Let go! Leyth! You will drown with me!" But Leyth's hand clutched the man's wrist in a firm grip. The bulky weight pulled him down, painfully overstretching his joints, as the young man grasped the railing with his leg and his free hand.

Was this the punishment for his decision to join the fleet, knowing that what they did on their travels was not right? Had he not been punished enough in his life? Nothing was just in this world. He had suffered to the point of despair, where he did not care anymore but to get riches and his own share. On the ship, it had felt like a common business.

The men all talked little. They did their work. They raided together, took goods and slaves, killed. But they never looked like they enjoyed the killing or the punishment of a captive. It seemed all bereft of feeling, a necessity... a business. And behind their stern faces, they may all have their stories that Leyth did not know.

Only Wali – he was different! At the beginning of Leyth's service on the ship, the elder man's eyes had been dull and empty, like to him nothing mattered, and his bearing had been heavy, as if a weight pressed on him. But soon, warmth pooled in his hazel eyes when he looked upon Leyth, and Leyth felt love and sadness flooding him.

He knew, by now, that nothing was right in this world. What they were doing was wrong. But he pushed the gnawing conscience aside, and did what was expected of him, serving on the ship as they all did. They never pushed him to kill. He was the boy of the ropes and the masts. The one who would spy anything from afar.

Wali was respected and valued, for he knew much of the water, the weather, and the sails. He knew the sea, and he knew how to live through its tempers. His experience was of great import to the fleet. He served well, and Leyth had never seen him kill. But he never complained, never questioned.

Nothing was right in this world. Leyth pushed those thoughts away every new day. He had embarked on the ship, and there was no returning with nothing to bring back to his mother.

Leyth cried out in his effort and despair. Wali was slipping away. But Leyth would not let go of him – never! – and so he was pulled downwards by the weight of the man. Even as he slid, he stared back at the deck of the ship that had been his home for long months, realizing this was the end.

And suddenly, there on the planks, he discerned the young warrior who had first stepped onto the ship; down on his knees, as if he had been struck. He stared at the sky, his chest heaving. Leyth felt a sudden pang of sadness at the image, at the thought that this glowing being should die here. It felt wrong. But as Leyth stared, in his own despair, he saw no blood on the body of the warrior, and it was to Leyth as if he was kneeling on the verge of another world where a bright glow like his belonged. Then the warrior focused clear eyes upon Leyth, and there, just for a breath, Leith felt hope as the glowing warrior's gaze held his. His long eyes widened, and in their clear blue, a grey-green storm unfolded, like the moving waters in the open sea.

Too late. Leyth knew, as his cramped fingers gave in to the pain. The beautiful face of the warrior, directed at him, torment in his sea-deep eyes, was the last thing Leyth saw before he fell into a mad, panicked struggle, gripping at his beloved Wali and the cold water closed over him.

Sequel (or rather prequel) to this in the next chapter. From Legolas' POV.

And then here, all that happened before Leyth's story was revealed (in the previous chapter). From Legolas' POV, when the call of the gull struck him.

A call from the sky tore through Legolas' heart, high pitched and keen, strangely sad and sweet. It forced him to his knees. He succumbed to it, thoroughly defenceless, his face tipped to the skies, eyes wide in shock and amaze.

As if in a haze he took in the ghosts swarming the ships, like a shadowed mist with glistening dead eyes. They spread terror among the men who many ran madly, horror in their eyes as they leapt into the dark waters of the Anduin.

Legolas' gaze, still wide-eyed and stunned from the gull's rapturous, piercing cry, caught upon the shape of a young man clambering on the balustrade, half hanging down to the other side, shouting afeared, downwards to the water as if to somebody he held onto. His voice came out hoarser with every scream, sobs tore through his whole body shaking his frame, visibly weakening him. Another cry down to the water, pleading, and at the next desperate wail, he lost hold and slid.

Legolas stared, saw dark locks plastered to the boy's light-brown skin. Dark eyes staring back at him. The raw fear and despair in them jolted him into action. The boy stared back at him, as with their last strength his slim fingers clutched the railing. Their knuckles turned pale by the effort of clawing the wood.

The elf shot forward towards the boy, reached out with his arms, but before he could grasp the hand, a sleeve, anything, there was a raw cry of pure anguish and the hand slid away, gave in to the pull downwards. Legolas doubled over the balustrade just to see the boy plunge into the dark water beyond. He had been pulled down by a weight. There was a man there in the water and the boy now clung to him in blind panic, thrashing and spluttering, out of his mind. The man was older, Legolas recognized, dark-grey hair and stronger built. The man tried to break free, to overwhelm the youngster in his frenzied, deadly terror. But the force developed in panic proved indomitable and pulled the man underwater. The stunning strength of the youngster's desperate strive would bring them to death in the floods of the great river.

Legolas heard the gull cry over him, the call of a white sea-bird over the black ships, and he had to struggle to not crash to his knees, fight against the tearing call that seemed to paralyze him. His knees shook, wanted to give away. He saw the two bodies dragged by the current in a tangle of limbs disappearing at times from the surface, exposed to the force of the waters.

In his mind's eye, Legolas saw a flash of those young, fearful eyes staring at him. His body jolted forward all by itself. He was barely aware of his panting breaths. A jumble of emotions clashed and chafed in his breast, collided with his racing heart. His thoughts seemed void, as he leapt, head between his arms, splitting the water like one of his arrows. For a moment, he lost all his senses as the cold water enclosed him, plunged him into its silence.

The current helped him, as driven by instinct he dove and reached and got hold of a twitching shape. He grasped it, kicking and kicking against the pull of the river. He split the surface, gasped for air. He heard voices from above, heard his own name, saw long raven hair reaching down to him, a strong arm appearing from under it, taking hold of the man in his arms, pulling him upwards. But the limp bundle, the man had been holding onto, slid, ripped away by the water.

The man was heaved up on board into safety. He coughed and gasped, and between it cried out in broken Westron, "Please!" he begged, "Please- save him!" He gulped and choked, but then he managed more words, "He should not have held me, he cannot swim. – Please! Save the boy!"

Legolas heard his own name again in between the pleas of the man; weighty, compelling. It was Elladan, or Elrohir… and he heard a shout, a reverberating groan, like a cave-in, urgent and deep, even as he plunged again. He knew it was Gimli's voice; a low rumbling tenor increased by dread, much stronger than worry.

But then he was underwater again, and he heard no more, let the current seize him. The shape of the boy was dragged under. The water was dark; Legolas could not see. He remembered the cry of the gull and it pierced the silence. He heard the man's pleas, the gull's song strong in the silent depth of the Anduin. His lungs hurt, he could endure no more.

But then he discerned a shape, dark and still, dragged with the current and sinking. He dove faster, using the water's speed. The thought brushed his mind that soon his senses would fade, leave him to drown… but then he was close, his hand shot forward, snatched the dark shape. He kicked and fought against the current, against death in the water, pulling the unmoving burden with him. His lungs burned, all organs in his chest screamed. Suddenly there was a sharp pull to his tunic, and it hauled him to break the surface.

He was barely aware as the soaked bundle was taken from him. He blinked up at the hands reaching for him. But his body felt heavy, like stone. He could not lift his arms anymore. The water closed over him, muting the shouts, the frantic screams. All turned silent.

He heard only the cry of the gull but he could not see the sky, nor the waves of the sea, and he felt burning pain in his heart, in his lungs, crushing him. And then darkness came, and over it rushed the waves, not of the Anduin but of the sea. Gleaming foam in the sunlight as they broke on the shore. A deep longing and sadness claimed him, that he might never see those promised lands of elven home…

Almost violently, he was hauled up. He choked, overwhelmed by the tearing air; the pain was searing in his starved lungs. Hard planks impacted with his knees, his ribs. He was stunned, motionless on the ground. But then his body jerked and he coughed and gagged and expelled water. There was somebody there, close to him, holding his head, stroking him encouragingly. Long, dark, soaked hair, reaching down to his face, strong hands and a voice rich and deep, speaking softly, soothingly, yet coarse with anxiety.

Legolas trembled uncontrollably. His breath hitched as he shook from deep within. He turned his head away from the wooden planks, saw the boy and the man with the dark-grey hair he had pulled from the waters. The man cradled the youngster close to him while Elladan was bent over them, checking the boy's vitals with the concern of a healer. The man and the boy both squinted over uncertainly at the elf sprawled on the planks. His senses dulled in agony, Legolas blinked, focusing, and saw how the two humans' gazes met in relief and then looked back at him. He saw their hands intertwining.

The gull cried; a lament, a deep wailing… soft and spiked, and painfully sweet, with the promise of a land far to the west, over the waves crowned with foam, gleaming white in the sunlight, where all this pain could not reach. He longed… so achingly deep… to flee these lands, where men would enslave and slaughter their own, again and again. He felt a hopelessness, a heavy doubt that even if the Dark Lord may be defeated, it would not cease. This thought, this feeling, took hold, wrapped around his heart and pressed heavily. He found it hard to breathe.

And yet – two lives saved, two hands intertwining in love, eyes expressing care and comfort - maybe one day… there was hope.

The colour of their skin reminded him of her. And their eyes… still young, not ancient like hers, but bearing this sadness in their depth, of all the cruelties they had seen, the loss of lands succumbed to darkness, of people forced to fight for a horrible purpose, pushed into battles where they did not even know what or whom they served. And he understood her then. He felt her love for those lost, swallowed lands, the pain of their people enslaved, reduced to misery, forced into soldiers abused for a vile cause. He felt the clutches of hopelessness.

He breathed, hitching... and the man and the boy regarded him with those sad weary eyes but also gratitude and something else… flickering softly, hesitantly – fear... and hope…

His heart soared and plummeted with the wails of the gulls' song, the pain, bitter and sweet, stole his senses, stole the air from his lungs. He gasped. He could not breathe anymore. He coughed in agony, expelled more water on the planks of the ship, lying slumped on his belly. His hands under him trembled from the effort of gulping air in, of trying to push himself up to his knees.

Who would understand him? Would Aragorn? – He knew about it, but never felt this way… and he was laden with duty and responsibility towards these lands… Would Gimli, who feared the unknown? – He knew not of such things as the call of the sea, the ailing heart of elves… it would scare him…

… She who was weary, running from everything, running from him, ceaseless… She who was fighting her own battle, unknown to anyone. She who had the knowledge and the power to heal but perhaps would not return anymore. Would she understand the pain and the beauty, the tearing beckoning, of the gull's song? – But she was not here now, and they might never meet again...

And the gull called, ceaseless, a sweet lament and a promise of a land bathed in everlasting brightness – of home.

Finally, panting and trembling, the elf pushed himself up; he felt the wet, hard planks under his knees, saw in his mind dark eyes filled with agony, the waves of the sea raged and soothed and tore at him. He looked upward, facing the heavy sky hung low with grey clouds. – Another day without dawn.

He wanted to scream, but he could not. A painful sob shook him from deep within. For a moment Legolas wished it all to cease, for the sea to take him and drown him, welcoming him in its depths where he would feel nothing but the all-encompassing silence.

The waves crashed over him, pulled him down and all muted once again. Even with the hard floor under his knees, he was drowning.

But then strong arms wrapped around him, hauling him up to the surface. The breath burned in his lungs and Legolas felt he would burst, for the longing was painful, persistent, strangely soft and sweet, and yet unbearably oppressing.

He cried out in despair and leaned in, slumped forward against a firm, warm body. A deep voice hummed to him, soothing, while the sea was restless. It was Elrohir's voice, holding him up in the tide, cradling him, moving with the waves, smoothing their pull, sinking and rising softly with him.

"I know," he heard the voice say, full of compassion, over the sighs of the waves, "It will never end, but you will learn to float and navigate rocking gently, you will learn to weather it."

There was a knowing soreness in Elrohir's voice, but such strength and control as well.

For a long time, Legolas kneeled like this, on the hard planks of the black ship, letting Elrohir's hold steady him. The gull still circled above in the sky, and at every cry, the magnitude of the waves rose and spiked the tearing pain in his heart.

"Breathe," Elrohir said, his voice calm, his chest rising and falling soothingly against Legolas' own – like the tide, rising and ebbing and constant. Legolas closed his eyes and breathed and breathed, the sea all around him. Saltwater burning in his eyes, wetting his cheeks, catching on his lips.

He knew not how much time had passed when he blinked his eyes open. Elrohir still held him. Water dripped from them both, pooling at their knees. Beside him was Elladan, so very close now, and like them, down on his knees. Legolas tried to focus on him. And there, in the deep grey of the other elf's eyes, he saw again the sea. Pain and understanding filled them. Elladan's lids lowered and closed over the sea of his eyes and he freed a long shuddering sigh. When his lids opened, his limpid gaze caught Legolas' lost one and held it. His hand sought the wood-elf's, wrapping stiff fingers into comforting warmth.

Then, as if awakening from an exhausting, tormenting dream, Legolas let his gaze wander. The pain was still there, still burning, in his chest, in his throat, and the clouds hung low, but Elrohir's and Elladan's closeness, and that they knew, was bringing him comfort. – He was not alone. – They sheltered him somewhat from the force of the waves.

The gull was circling above, but his awareness drifted slowly over shapes around him seeping into his vision. He found Gimli, standing pale and startled, not far away, staring at him, the end of his beard in his white-knuckled fist, as if holding on to it not to faint. And beside him were the man and the boy he had pulled from the waves, looking at the elves in insecure, wide-eyed confusion.

Legolas then pulled back from Elrohir. Unsteady and wavering, he rose. Elrohir did not hold him back. Step after wobbling step Legolas walked until he reached the balustrade. He felt Gimli's eyes following his every shaking movement. But he could not face the dwarf now, did not know what to say, how to explain what had overcome him. He could not find words at all, could not speak at the moment. The feelings and the waves were too strong, their sighs and the rushing of the foam on their crests captured his senses. He became distantly aware of Elrohir standing watch not too far from him..

Wrapping his fingers around the wood, Legolas leaned forward over the deep water of the Anduin. It was not the sea... dark streaming water… but the sea was now in him, overwhelming, and he knew he could never forget, would never again be rid of its call. The dark waves broke and slapped against the bowel of the ship.

Legolas lifted his gaze from the water to look up at the great ship beside theirs. There were men over there, organizing things in calm, steady business. People clothed in dirty, torn lumps were rising on deck warily, mostly men, but some women also; the slaves who had been chained to the oars, it sunk slowly into Legolas' quavering perception. Behind him, he heard voices and the creaking of feet on wooden steps – captives regaining freedom. There were slaves on their own ship being freed... – It was not in vain! Their struggles and sacrifices, the deaths, were for freedom. All the killing… it was for freedom. It was not in vain... But the price had been steep.

And there on the great black ship right before him, staring at him, stood Aragorn. He was not alone. Halbarad held a powerful arm across his shoulder, steadying him, soothing him, much like Elrohir had done with Legolas. Aragorn took a step forward. Halbarad squeezed his shoulder and then released him, standing vigil just one step behind. Aragorn stood completely still, as if he was not even breathing. Wayward strands of his ruffled, dark hair hung into his face, but he seemed not to notice, did nothing to brush them away. He lowered his eyes, nearly closing them, his lids hiding the liquid fear and despair that was still showing, and his broad shoulders rose and fell and hitched with a sigh as visible relief washed over him. Like a white crested wave of the sea, thought Legolas, as he gazed at Aragorn blearily, realizing that for him there would be no such remedy.

I will go with you to the end, he remembered his own words, and there was nothing apart from death that could pull him away from this promise, not the cry of the gull, not the sea, its foaming waves, the spray of saltwater on his face, not the pain in his heart, for there was a feeling so great in that same place, that would withstand the draw of the waves, no matter how furious the storm raged… There stood his friend… a great man with a heart that overwhelmed him… the heir of Isildur, valiant and bold, a boy grown into a mighty Lord, and yet so humble and sincere, that he wore the naked fear and relief on the rim of his sleeves.

Legolas felt something insistently pull at the seam of his tunic. The gulls crooned above him and circled, demanding his attention, his heart. The man who would be a great King still stared at him, but the tug on his tunic now came more forceful. His eyes snapped downwards, catching Gimli's anxious face frowning up at him.

"Come lad," the dwarf croaked, "there are a man and a boy just here who wish to express their gratitude." Legolas blinked down at the dwarf, his mind processing his sluggish thoughts, slowly returning onto firm deck.

Gimli harrumphed to free his throat, "You have quite scared the wits out of them, you know?"

As Legolas still did not respond, Gimli continued more exigently, his voice gaining in volume. "They thought you would drown… And as Elrond's sons dragged you out…" he paused, swallowing, before continuing in a strangely coarse tone, "… it looked like you might still die in the aftermath, from shock or from water in your lungs. They do not know what elves are made of…" he pulled again at the tunic as he dropped his eyes and his voice, "The way you jerked and choked… it was not an easy sight to behold."

Legolas regarded Gimli, deep in thought; this dwarf who, even upon a floating ship, stood square and firm like a boulder, anchoring him with his gruff practicality and rumbling voice. Legolas sighed, long and heavy. Gimli eyed him critically through narrowed eyes, considering, and then shoved him along until they stood before the two humans Legolas had saved from certain death in the deep waters of the Anduin. As the dwarf and the elf approached, their bodies tensed like those of cornered animals. The man came to stand slightly before the boy in a protective stance of defence. For a moment, his eyes narrowed in doubt, but then he lowered his head. There was guilt in the gesture, and respect also. His dark gaze was fearsome, yet alert. Converse emotions visibly battled inside him. Legolas did not know if he was still terrified by the wisps of shadows, by their gleaming eyes, their cold hisses as they rushed past over the water, assailing the remaining ships. If it was the fear of retribution, or even the elf's mere presence having that effect on him. The man parted his lips to say something while the boy stared, stunned and bewildered.

"We are… forevermore… in your debt!" the man finally spoke in broken Westron, "We pledge… our lives to you!"

Legolas stared back at them, still hearing the cry of a gull in the distance. He noticed their increasing disquiet with the stretching silence and how they glanced at him uncertainly. Gimli shifted impatiently beside him, elbowing him not so gently.

The dwarf's voice rumbled, "By Mahal... forever is a very long time for you, they need not come up to it – tell them, laddie…" he looked up at the elf, frowning, and then he continued himself, now speaking sternly to the two humans, filling the strained silence, "If you travel with us up the river, lending your skill with the ship, consider your debt to be paid… it will be your own choice to join in the fight to free Minas Tirith. – Do you agree, master elf?"

Legolas felt another elbow from Gimli jammed into his hip. This time it was rather forceful and jolted him to stagger slightly sidewards. He became very aware of the irritation of the dwarf and the wide, bewildered eyes of the men before him.

"O– Of course!" he stammered, somewhat embarrassed, the tips of his ears flushing, "My friend here said it," – he tried to remember what Gimli had said, since the waves had washed over Gimli's words, jumbling them somewhat up in his head. … he had been talking about forever, and that they would sail, and needed skills with the ship, and they would free Minas Tirith…

– Yes, they would help Aragorn reclaim the throne and vanquish the Dark Lord! Legolas smiled at them, relieved. And to see the shadow lift from their eyes brought warmth to his heart. The corners of their lips tugged upwards, and the men appeared visibly eased.

"Are you with us?" Legolas asked, with sudden, regained enthusiasm at the thought of the fellowship, his dear friends, his promise to support Aragorn to claim his right as ruler and bring peace and hope to Middle-earth. And he clasped their shoulders as they nodded their alliance.

Gimli sighed, "Good lad," he patted Legolas' arm, "you almost scared them under deck with your strange manners," he mumbled, "I am glad you are back with us."

Finally, as he seemed reassured by Legolas' recovery, his face split in a broad, warm grin, and he lifted his axe, "Let us sail to kill orcs. Come on! To Minas Tirith!"

Through Different Eyes by Nurayy